


Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy

by dancinbutterfly



Category: Entourage
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Escorts, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Anal Sex, BDSM Scene, Being Closeted, Bittersweet Ending, Daddy Kink (mentioned), Diary/Journal, Epistolary, Fisting, Foot fetish (mentioned), Gay male sex, Group Sex, Heterosexual Sex, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, In relationship to Vince's job as a sex worker, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Other things possibly not listed here, Rape Fantasy, Read at Your Own Risk, Rope Bondage, Secret Diary of a London Call Girl AU, Sex Work, The following is discussed, Wax Play, watersports (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-10
Updated: 2009-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-29 06:09:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 70,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20077432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinbutterfly/pseuds/dancinbutterfly
Summary: Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This inspired by Belle Du Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the [](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/profile)[entourage_fest](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/).

**Title:** Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy  
**Entries:** 1-20 of 150  
**Status:** Complete  
**Fandom:** Entourage  
**Word Count:** ~6,600 words  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Entourage or anyone who has ever appeared on it.  
**Pairing:** Vince/Eric, Vince/Pretty much everyone else except Turtle, Johnny, and the Golds (seriously)  
**Rating:** NC-17 for lots and lots of sex  
**Warnings:** AU, prostitution, mentions of past childhood physical abuse, BDSM, gay sex, straight sex, group sex, rape fantasy, fisting, wax play, a foot fetishist, adultery, mentions of daddy-kink, extremely brief mention of watersports. _If any of the particular warnings are squicks for you, send me a private message and I'll tell you which entry to avoid!_  
**Betas and helpers:** [](https://guest-age.livejournal.com/profile)[**guest_age**](https://guest-age.livejournal.com/), [](https://justabi.livejournal.com/profile)[**justabi**](https://justabi.livejournal.com/), [](https://allyndra.livejournal.com/profile)[**allyndra**](https://allyndra.livejournal.com/), [](https://ariadne83.livejournal.com/profile)[**ariadne83**](https://ariadne83.livejournal.com/), [](https://pesha.livejournal.com/profile)[**pesha**](https://pesha.livejournal.com/) and [](https://deepad.livejournal.com/profile)[**deepad**](https://deepad.livejournal.com/) were all completely indispensable. Thank you so much.  
**Authors Notes:** This inspired by Belle Du Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the [](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/profile)[**entourage_fest**](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/).

**Summary:** Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.

Entry 1

Journaling was never really my thing. But what the hell? My friend Turtle says my life's pretty interesting, but that he could live without the details, so I might as well put them somewhere.

So, here goes. This is number one.

~*~*~

Entry 2

I realize that I forgot to mention before that I fuck people for money. I like it. And more importantly, I'm good at it.

There're plenty of cons, sure, but I get paid a lot, have a disgustingly awesome amount of free time during the day to bum around L.A., and just generally be a lazy son of a bitch.

It works for me. Didn't in the beginning, back in New York when I was just another waste of space pretty boy from a shit neighborhood. But out here on the West Coast, it's good. I've got an agency that takes care of bookings for me and all I have to do is show up and put out.

It's fucking beautiful, baby, and I live very fucking well.

~*~*~

Entry 3

Sometimes, I really fucking hate not having a car. Or being able to drive. Waiting for a ride is a waste of time, but I just don't get on well with cars. Not driving them anyway.

Turtle's another story. He got started in L.A. working on cars for his girlfriend, [Kelly](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=0161-1.jpg)'s, dad. He's kind of a management/networking guy now for Rufus' company. He's good, too.

But I don't like asking Turtle to drive me places. Especially not for work-related trips. Going to the sex shop to buy girly mags is one thing. It's another thing to drag him to one to watch me buy new butt plugs, a replacement chain for my nipple clamps, and an economy sized bottle of water-based lube.

He doesn't need to see that. He doesn't deserve it.

Still. I hate waiting for the fucking cab to show up. Traffic in L.A. sucks balls.

~*~*~

Entry 4

I have this regular, [Scott](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=0278.jpg).

Ari, my agent, hooked me up with the guy when I first got started. He's in his sixties and he's a good guy. I like him. No, really. I do. It took us a little time to warm up to each other and now the working relationship is one of my best. He's one of my longest-standing clients and I've worked hard to keep him, really hard. Usually, he doesn't like to keep a boy around after he stops looking like jailbait, and I'm this close to thirty so yes, my ass is just that good, thanks for asking.

Of course, I'm not a live-in so that helps. I was for awhile though, back in 90's before I started making real money with the agency. It was nice, actually. Great pool, huge TV, DVD player back before everyone had one. And if you could get past the old thing, he was actually a fairly good fuck.

The Daddy thing is kinda weird though. To be honest, after all this time I still find it weird, but it doesn't set of my creep alarm anymore. It's just a kink. Everyone has them. Mine just happens to involve getting tied up and used like a blowup doll. His is more Oedipal, or whatever the male version of wanting to fuck your son is.

He had to get high as hell to break that to me the first time. From what I can remember (not much, I was high, too), he was shy, awkward, and ashamed about the whole thing. He told me about his father the diplomat and there was this whole incident involving a guard in Red Square, but I didn't really follow it. I don't need to. He likes it when I act like a little boy and call him Daddy, so I do. I'd rather he get that with me than with…well, there are places he could go for that, boys he could pay, and I'm glad I'm not them.

He calls me a couple times a month, when his live-in-du-jour won't give him what he needs how he needs it, he wants a threesome, or is just craving someone he's familiar with, and he sends a car. He pays in cash and he kisses both my cheeks, then my lips when he sees me.

But if he's cruising for a group thing or he wants to watch me fuck his boy (I know, I can't believe I get paid for that either), I always check if the guy's legal before we start. So far, none of them have been under 18, but I still like to be sure. I get weekly mani-pedis as part of my work prep and nothing fucks up freshly buffed nails like a day or two in jail.

~*~*~

Entry 5

Women are difficult. I love them—the way the feel, taste, and smell and how they're so fucking different. But they're difficult. Because women like to take me out and show me off. Particularly the ones in and around the business.

In award season, the big money is in women. Sad women. Lonely women. Women who are trying to impress their friends whose husbands still fuck them by bringing a man who's beautiful, strong, and fifteen to forty years younger than she is. They're almost all repeats or are referred by friends and frenemies in similar situations.

But award season ends by March and the rest of the year, the money's in dick. Mine. His. It doesn't really matter. Men pay for sex—,always have, always will—,and in this town, they'll pay twice as much for dick as for pussy.

No. That's not true. Men don't pay twice as much for dick. They pay twice as much for dick to keep its fucking mouth shut and suck, there's a good little boy. Just like that. Yeah, bitch, suck it harder. You like that, you filthy little cocksucker?

Most of the time the answer is no, not really. But I nod, and smile then I turn on the big ole, "Yes baby, I love it," eyes and suck.

I'm good at that one. Mrs. Ari says it's all about my mouth.

"You have a beautiful mouth, Vince, just beautiful," she says most times she sees me. And she caresses it like my mouth is some sort of pet, like one of those rat dogs that fit in your purse. She looks like the kind of big name actress who could have one tucked under her arm as she comes off a film shoot. Only nowadays her look is much more like a Meryl Streep picture than what she used to act in, which was all of the Glory Hole Girl films, one through sixteen.

Ari says it's pure talent, which is somehow worse.

But pure talent doesn't extend to what's required for the award show women. I blow a decent chunk of my commission renting the clothes. If you're going to walk the red carpet, your shirt can't have come from the annual warehouse sale at Barney's. Not when the woman on your arm is wearing 1.8 million dollars in diamonds.

They tend to like me to fuck them in public. Dresses on, stockings around their ankles if they're wearing any at all. Their high heels dig into my ass and they pant, beg, pull on my hair and my suit jacket, and occasionally they rip things, and then I'm out anywhere from five hundred to three grand on something I can't return.

If it weren't for the volume, it wouldn't be worth it. But it definitely keeps me busy one month out of the year. But by March I'm exhausted. Is it summer yet?

~*~*~

Entry 6

My dad died two years ago today.

Johnny picks me up around 2 and gets me shit-faced. Neither of us talk about the time with the stairs. And he doesn't talk the time when I was thirteen and the old man threw me into a chest of drawers and my cracked my skull so hard I was in the hospital for a week. Johnny had to pay for the hospital visit out of the money he made dealing weed because none of us had insurance, but we don't talk about it either.

He doesn't mention how right after I turned sixteen, the old man decided I was a sissy faggot and that I needed it beat out of me. Funny, since that was months before I sucked my first cock or got fucked for the first time. Johnny'd already gone to L.A. by then and there wasn't anything he could do for me.

I don't think about how I spent a two weeks sleeping in the subway tunnels and eating half-eaten burgers out of the trashcans of restaurants before I'd made enough turning ten dollar tricks to get a room. And then I was sharing an apartment with two heroin addicts a year or two older than me who scared the fuck out of me. They had dead eyes and one of them had herpes in his mouth. They worked the same block as I did. Turtle and Johnny are the only reason I'm not still there.

We drink. And then we drink more. And then we drink even more.

I wake up the next morning on Johnny's couch only to throw up in his sink.

~*~*~

Entry 7

Pineapple lube is disgusting. Just putting that out there. Who the fuck comes up with this crap?

~*~*~

Entry 8

The thing I've noticed about female clients—no, fuck that, just clients in general—is that the ones who pay me the most, a lot of them are after the intimacy as much as the orgasm. It's hard to get and people fucking _need_ it.

The big money comes from one place—desperation. The more someone wants something—,the harder it is for them to get it—,the more they're willing to pay for it. It's why Scott pays me a grand a go to fuck me in knee-high socks like a prep-school boy while I beg for more daddy-cock, it's why [Babs](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=0199.jpg) pays me to tie her up and force-fuck her, and it's why married men shell out three hundred an hour to eat my ass then have me fuck them into the floor. It's also why Shauna pays me to spend three days with her just holding her and being there after awards season ends and why [Bob](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=0234.jpg) pays me to sleep through the night with him, wrapped around his arthritic body like a shield.

Desperation's gold, Ari says. He's not wrong. But my client tonight is publicly out, rich, powerful, a name that people know, and he's not bad looking either. I think he's just going for convenient. No desperation involved. And that's a relief. Sometimes it's nice to just get paid and get laid.

~*~*~

Entry 9

I love sex. No, really. I like the work I do, but work aside, I fucking love fucking and being fucked—depending on my mood and my recent client history.

Why's it matter now? Last night my client used a vibrator on me. Several. Apparently, she got off on watching guys use toys. She didn't let me fuck her, just rode out the evening with a vibrating egg inside herself while she pushed the buzzing toys in and out until she'd come enough times and our two hours were up.

And it was fun. I actually came, which I don't always do with clients, but it was a huge fucking tease and today I'm horny as fuck and practically gagging for it. I blame the client. Really. I do. Jerk.

I don't have any bookings tonight, though so I have to go out and get tail like a normal person. Getting laid on my own isn't hard, of course. West Hollywood's crawling with bars and I'm good looking enough that I don't have to try.

"Pretty," E'd called it back when we were kids before his dad died and his mom dragged him off to Boston. When we were kids he’d said I was too pretty for sports and to go try drama. And I did. When we were younger, I was in the habit of doing what E said.

People want me, they always have. Sometimes the convenience of having someone else book your fuck for you is nice. But sometimes? It's all about the hunt—whether I'm being hunted or doing the hunting.

I pull a tall, mountain of a blond who doesn't mince words because he's hacked the game. We're in this for the same thing and I can see it in his eyes the first time I look at him. Fucking is as much of a sport for him as it can be a job for me, and he plays to win.

He fucks me over the back of the couch in his apartment—hard, deep, and efficient. Professionally, I actually admire his skills. Personally, his dick curves enough that it hits my prostate every time he slams in, and I see stars behind my eyes. He pulls my hair and he bites my neck, and I come mostly from the inside out, although he's got calloused hands that stroke my dick and sends me over the falls in a fucking barrel. The crash is as good as the fall.  
  
I give him my number because a fuck that good is worth revisiting. But I don't expect to hear from him anytime soon. He's not that kind and neither am I.

~*~*~

Entry 10

Someone's car alarm is going off outside.

Don't they have any fucking decency? Its 1 PM and some of us are trying to sleep.

~*~*~

Entry 11

I came out to L.A. to be an actor. Johnny set me up on his couch and I killed myself trying. I had a GED and a pretty face and hunger to be something more than I was turning into back home—living out the lyrics to that song by Dee Dee Ramone, you know the one. Dom called it the "whore" song, long U sound like in lube.

I didn't trick when I first got to L.A.. I washed dishes and I temped, but I didn't sell it because I was going to make it. I was going to do it right. So I didn't trick.

Not until [Freddy](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=5x07_0438.jpg).

British, a good fifteen years older, and good looking in a sharp, angular sort of way. He was my first L.A. job—the one who set the ball rolling. He noticed me while I was busing tables at one of the nicer restaurants I'd ever worked at, tipped me a twenty even though bus boys didn't get tips, and left me his phone number written across Jackson's face.

I was 19, I was broke, and I hadn't been laid well since I got to L.A. So I called him and we met at his loft. There was Scotch that was older than me and sex on 800 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. He sucked my brain out through my dick and then fucked me so hard it nearly broke his headboard. It was cleansing and I felt better about the whole L.A. thing by the time we fucked for the third time, in his shower with my face against the tile, slipping and sliding as he pounded me into the wall.

"How much do I owe you, Sunshine?" he asked as he watched me pull my clothes back on.

I stopped with my shirt half unbuttoned. "What?"

"For tonight," he said, digging into his wallet. "Will four hundred about do it?"

"For the sex?"

"Of course. You're a beautiful boy, Vince. I don't expect someone like you to come cheap. Top of the line you are, gorgeous."

"Five"," I said, shocking myself. But I hadn't been able to pay my share of the rent since I got out to L.A. and I needed it. Wouldn't hurt just this once. And maybe it was the amount, maybe it was the way he looked at me, maybe it was how good the sex was, but it felt different than the tricks I turned back in New York. Powerful. What I did back on the East Coast was desperate so I' could afford somewhere to sleep and a way out.

This wasn't like that. This felt like a reward. Like…if I let myself, it maybe could be something I could be proud of. Like a real job.

He crossed the room with a handful of folded bills. He pushed them into the back pocket of my jeans and kissed me. "Worth every penny," he said against my mouth. "We'll have to do this again sometime, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Freddy was the one who gave me the number for the Gold Standard. It was Freddy who recommended me to Shauna to spread my name around the female client base like wildfire. And it was Freddy who dragged me to Fred Segal and Barney's and D&G and Armani.

"Gotta look the part, don't you, Sunshine. Besides—" He stood behind me in the dressing room, lips on my throat. I looked at the picture we made in the mirror. We could've been. We could've been any of those upper-crust WeHo queer couples. The shoes he bought me were worth more than the mortgage monthly mortgage payment on my mom's house. "I put people and things together to make them more beautiful. And you should look as good as possible with your clothes on before you take them off. "

Most of that stuff is still in my closet. Half of it is too nice to wear to work. The other half is old enough that it doesn't really matter because it doesn't look as expensive as it really was.

I told Johnny it was an acting job when I moved out a week later and in with Scott. He asked where, and with what company, and I was vague and by the first year, when nothing came out and I had all this free fucking time, I think that's when he figured it out.

I told Turtle, though. He'd known about New York and he wasn't happy about me doing it again here, but he didn't fight me.

"You gonna be safe this time?"

"I was safe last time."

"The fuck you were," Turtle snapped. He'd had to lie to Dom about why I needed a ride to the E.R. Broke ribs. That whole thing was a mistake.

"I am, Turtle, Jesus. That's the whole point of going through an agency. This isn't me standing on Sunset turning tricks. It's legit. "

He looked at me like he knew there was an answer in my face, somewhere. To what question, I don't know. But he's my only real friend in L.A., I mean, Jesus, he took the money I made in the city and turned it into enough for us to come out here in the first place, and 'it's nice to have _someone_ I can talk to. He can look at me however the fuck he wants.

~*~*~

Entry 12

"I've got a job for you, Chase. Be at the Beverly Wilshire in one hour. He's in room 207."

I scribble the number then do the math. "I can't get a cab over there and be ready in time. It's rush hour, Ari."

"Then I suggest you run."

He's good at his job and, in his own way, he cares. I know this, but ugh.

Days like this just…fucking Ari.

~*~*~

Entry 13

The client wants me to come on him. He wants to watch me jerk off and come on him. Fairly simple, right? Wrong. Where does he want me to come? Does he want me to eat it? Does he want me to reciprocate? The very fact that he wants me to come changes whether or not I'm going to use Viagra to get it up.

The more I know about the job the better.

For something like this, I use something besides pharmaceuticals. Viagra makes it so you can't come and the clients don't like you to whip out the porn (unless they do first), so I dig in my brain for something that will take me there besides the fact that he's fifty pounds overweight and twenty years older than me.

I think about Freddy's whole tongue inside me, flexing and twisting. It's good but it's not good enough so I reach for an old fantasy, one that is guaranteed to bring me off.

I think about E, back in Queens, covered in freckles with sad eyes. We're in his basement after his dad's funeral, there are still people milling around upstairs moving chairs and bringing food, and he's just told me that his mom's moving. That he's leaving me. And instead of just shrugging, like I did that day, I lean forward and kiss him. He tastes like the cigarettes he stole from his parents' room (his dad's brand), the lasagna Mrs. Carmino brought to the wake, and salt. In my head, he grabs my hair with one hand and works on the fly of my jeans with the other. I lick my way into his mouth and eventually get both our pants off. Or hands tangle together as we thrust and buck between our fingers. He's breathing in short pants from between my lips and it's awkward, clumsy, and pure. E cries out when comes, his hand letting go of my hair so that his arm can snake around my neck and pull me close. I come a few seconds after, in my head and in reality, and spray the skin in front of me with thick spurts.

"I'll be back, Vince," the E in my head promises as I shake myself out of it and come back down to earth.

Reality is ugly. I haven't seen E in fifteen years and my client is scooping my come off his skin with his fingers and sucking them into his mouth, groaning. He rubs the rest of it into his stomach and chest like it's lotion while he brings himself off. I offer to help—to blow him, to jerk him, to ride him, but he just shakes his head.

It's a pretty short booking, but whatever he wants. It's his dime.

~*~*~

Entry 14

I pick up a girl at a bar I go to with Turtle and Johnny. She's got short red hair and she's short, and she reminds me of my friend, E, which is kind of weird and kind of not. If E hadn't gone to Boston—

He did, and that's fine. It's not like he wanted his dad to die. And I get why his mom needed go to her parents. I do. I get all of that, and I'm fine with all of that.

The problem is that we were kids and almost fifteen years later, I shouldn't still care. But I do.

It is what it is. Whatever.

Her name's Maureen. She's got small breasts and these short little unpainted fingernails that she digs with when she comes. She tries not to, but she tears at my shoulders when she comes against my tongue, and she makes this low sound in the back of her throat. It's better than that porn star shit because it's real. She's really coming and she's saying my real name, and I really like her.

Not enough to date or anything. The job gets in the way of dating, and women, especially, aren't down with me fucking other people, particularly men, for money. But I like her.

She rides me and she whimpers, and I push her hair back from her round face. She smiles at me and laughs a little when I thrust up into her. She's soft, wet, warm, and pliant, but strong. She arches her back and her hair falls down over her spine. It thrusts her breasts out and I have to reach up and feel them. Her nipples are hard under my thumbs but the curve her breast is so soft. I'm reminded why women are so fucking amazing.

She leaves her email address on my kitchen table when she leaves. I add it to my address book before the bed gets cold.

~*~*~

Entry 15

I'm submissive by nature. Always have been. When I was a kid, I just figured that E had all the good ideas and that was why I trusted him so implicitly, but when I was fifteen I had a girlfriend who tied me up and blindfolded me, and well…

It's gotten me into a fuck-ton of trouble in my time. Let's just leave it there for now.

It comes up at work though. Mrs. Ari worked as a Domintarix when she and Ari were putting the Gold Standard together back in the early nineties. It was the only sex work Ari would let her do after they got married because he wasn't cool with her fucking other people after she became a Gold.

But she can smell a bent one way or the other in a mile away. And the day I walked into the office, she knew.

"Promise me right now," she said to me that first day, "that you won't take the bottom position in a kink job unless I clear it." She walked around me in a slow circle, sizing me up like a tailor or a hungry carnivore. "I don't think you know where the line is."

I promised because I didn't then. That's how I got the broken ribs in the first place—wandering stupidly over the line and liking it—right up until I was spitting blood.

She took me under her wing. Part of being a good sub is knowing what you want out of your Dom/me, where you want him to take you. And if you know what you want, you know what to give. It only took me a little bit of practice to be able to give it. Doesn't seem like that should be the case, but it is.

She knows I'm pliable. I change easy from one form to the next. The old hooker cliché, "I'm whoever you want me to be," is a specialty of mine. It makes me think I really could've been a decent actor if I'd had the chance, taken the risk. I can play almost any part the client gives me, and I can make them believe it.

It took her time and resources to train me in some of the things she knows how to do. Using a cane is actually more difficult than it looks. No, really, it's all in the wrist and that's not an easy thing to get down. Feels amazing, but it's tricky.

Tonight's the second time I'm seeing this client. Last time he asked me about knives. Weapons are usually where I draw the line. Too many ways for it to go wrong, too many ways for someone to get hurt—particularly me. But the guy's a bigger sub than I am, and he used to work directly with Mrs. Ari before he came out.

I don't like it. But not every day at work is going to be something you like.

I drag the letters of Chase, the name I give to clients instead of my first, across his skin with the blade because he begs for it. I dwell too long on the letter "e," but he doesn't notice or care.

He's so hard and he cries a little, nothing drastic. It's enough to make me stop and check on him though. He nods through the tears and he's grateful, he says, so fucking grateful, Sir.

His eyes scare me, how badly he wants it. How badly I wish I could trust enough to do what he does. I tap the blade of the mostly dully knife against my lips as I watch him come.

He thanks me more as he shoots across the hotel bedspread. Thank you, Sir. Thank you, thank you thank, over and over.

The tip is more than Turtle made all month.  
  
~*~*~*~

Entry 16

There's a code word. It's kind of James Bond and it's kind of third-grade, no-girls-allowed-in-the-fort, but there it is. It keeps me safe, so Ari claims. He or Mrs. Ari or, vary rarely, someone in upper management calls me at the beginning of a meeting with a client.

If everything's fine, working the way it should, and there's no risk or weirdness, I say, "We're gold." And it's understood that I'm fine. It's Ari's idea of a joke. It was funny the first time, but after a few years it loses its punch.

"I'm fine," or ,"I'm good," is what you say if there's a problem—one you're on your way out of. It's a heads up to whoever Ari's got watching the place to make damn fucking sure I'm out of there and on the street in the next five minutes. I've only had to do that a couple of times.

"Everything is alright," is saved for physical harm and life or death because no, everything is not fucking all right. This fucker's got a gun to my head or a knife in his hands, and I need some back up to crash down the doors and get my ass out of there.

I've never had to use that one. But I know people who have. And it works.

That's where the money really goes. And it seems like a waste, but people get hurt in this business. Hell, it's not unheard of for someone to get killed.

Ari makes sure I'm okay. He takes that very seriously, and that fact keeps me from being too bitter when I hand over his cut.

~*~*~*~

Entry 17

There's a guy in the agency who gets pulled for women with rape fantasies. He's on his way to an actual career, so let's call him L.

L's an incredibly nice guy—a part timer who's a lot more serious about the acting gig than I am. He's a big guy, well on his way to being an action star. He's one of sweetest guys I've ever met, he's in a steady poly relationship, and I know for a fact that he's not a sexually aggressive guy. But the women who want to live out the fantasy violation almost always ask for him.

"I guess I'm the type"," is what L usually says.

I'm not a type, but a client asks me to do L's specialty. A couple. Man with a cuckold fetish and a woman with a rape fetish wanted me to live out a fantasy for them.

He's in his late forties and owns a company that makes…things…I don't know. I didn't care and wasn't listening. The important thing was they wanted me to tie them both up and make him watch me fuck her while they both struggled against their bonds.

It's not the first time a guy's asked me to fuck his wife in front of him (though I can count the times I've been paid to do that on one hand). It is the first time I've had to do a rape fantasy this complicated though. It's not a solo job—Mrs. Ari's got a girl, a pixie blonde with a smoky voice, on her team who's a rope specialist and she comes with me to the hotel to help set up.

"You pull this to tighten it, you pull this to release," Rope Girl says. "And remember not to pull her legs too far apart. A rape fantasy doesn't mean you have to hurt her."

"It doesn't?"

Rope Girl sighs at me. "It's about your will verses hers. That's where the violence is. Be careful with her, okay?"

She says it seriously and it makes me feel guilty for taking this job. She pushes a strand of her short hair behind her ear and doesn't meet my eyes. I don't hug her (I'm not a hugger) but I kind of want to.

"Talk to L," she says. "If you haven't already."

"And he's okay talking about what to do?"

"Yeah."

L's advice mostly has to do with watching her body language and listening to the guy at the same time. I've done groups before, but this is different. This is a whole new kind of careful because I have to do it roughly.

The guy doesn't fight me too hard as I force him into the chair and tighten the ropes. She does, though. She fights and she kicks and she cries, and she gets me in the face with her fist and the neck with her nails. She splits my lip on her elbow before I get her secured.

I want her to say her safe word. I want her to say it or "Red," or something more than what she warned me about, because I want it to stop. I want to walk away from her crying and her husband cursing me. She weeps and shoves against me with her knees and her legs.

I get her off with a sob that breaks my heart and he comes without touching himself. When they've both come, she sags into the bed and closes her eyes, crying quietly. I don't want to know what happened to them that got them here.

"Are you okay?" I'm still inside her when I ask her that. I've asked her that a hundred times in the encounter, but this is the first time she says anything other than, "Yes."

"Can you untie my husband?" she asks me with a raw throat and a quiet voice.

I pull out and untie him, and he runs to her. I peel off the condom and he whispers to her, that she's beautiful, that he loves her, that it's okay, that he's so proud of her—though for what, I don't know. It's not my business. But he doesn't untie her. And she doesn't ask him to. I watch them kiss for a moment, just to make sure.

I've walked away from gangbangs I was the focus of feeling cleaner than I do when I leave the room and disappear into the bathroom. I'm still in the shower when they leave.

~*~*~

Entry 18

I get a check up every three months. My doctor's a nice guy named Jake. He's only about five years older than me, and he isn't happy with what I do.

"Sex work is dangerous, Vince."

Yes, thank you I know that. Every now and then, I have the nightmares.

"Are you sure—"

"Jake, just do my blood work already. You know that this never works. Why do you even try?"

"Hippocratic oath."

"You're no hypocrite," I say, and he rolls his eyes at me. It's an incredibly bad joke, but it breaks the mood.

Jake worked in a free clinic near where my colleagues crawl Sunset for a couple years before he started his practice. One of the girls got herself cleaned up enough to work for Ari, and that's how the Gold Standard started working with him. He wasn't happy, but the agency's money was just as good as anyone's.

And I don't think he could turn the collective hooking "us" away. The guy's seen some things. I don't have any details, but I know what the boys and girls who end up where he worked are like. I used to be one of them. It's not an unfounded thing to worry about.

I'm not great with needles, so I put on my headphones and look away as Jake takes my arm. He's a good guy. Really. But when he's got that fucking needle in his hand, I hate him. It hurts but it's over fast and the needle's gone. I can handle the blood, just not the needle.

He runs through the normal doctor spiel as he wraps up. Then he sends me home to wait for my results to come in the mail.

I'm always more worried about herpes than anything else in these tests than anything. I wear a rubber, but that crap goes from skin to skin, no fluids needed. A bad case is a career ender.

That aside? My heart still stops for a second when my eyes get to the HIV status on the result page. Everything's been negative (aside from the time I caught the clap when I was working back in New York), but it doesn't matter. There's always that second of pure fucking dread followed by immense, physical relief. Always.

"You being careful with the Viagra?" he asks as I roll down my sleeve.

"Yes."

"Your pressure's normal for now, but the way you use that stuff—"

"I don't take it if I don't have to, okay? And I am keeping up with my blood pressure. Plus, my dick's never stayed hard longer than it's supposed to." Not entirely true, but that was for fun and had nothing to do with the little blue pill.

He says nothing, just looks at me, kinda of sad. I sigh and wonder if it wouldn't be easer to have these appointments if I just fucked him already. I've offered but maybe I should be more convincing. But then again, that would probably just make him worse. And I think he might be straight.

~*~*~

Entry 19

Freddy called to say he'll be back in town next Friday. Says he learned some things in Prague.

I can't. Fucking. Wait.

~*~*~

Entry 20

You occasionally get people who want to "take you away". They've seen Pretty Woman too many times and they forget a very important thing—I'm not a fucking girl. You can't marry me and turn me into your housewife that you pay in cash rather than jewelry (although that's a lot more honest).

But still. It happens. Foreigners seem to love to offer that sort of thing. I had the middle-aged princess of a small Slavic country offer to set me up in a castle. I turned her down. I'd have gotten bored.

They fall in love with the idea of you. And people are greedy, so they want you all to themselves. And that can get dangerous. And complicated, because usually they want to live the fantasy without all the paperwork.

This happens more than it should, so I've got a pretty hard and fast rule about not letting clients be lovers. I don't do relationships, but if I did, they wouldn't come from the client pool. I don't fuck anyone who's paid me before for free in the future.

Except for Freddy.

Freddy, who I never see more than three or four times a year. Freddy, who just got back from the Czech Republic with a bag full of toys and some new skill sets he wants to try out. Freddy, who tops me like a fucking god and makes me beg for more.

Freddy.

He's my exception that proves the rule.

And he gets that exception because that first time I fucked him, I really was just looking to get laid. I wanted him just 'cause, and that was before the money. So technically, it doesn't count.

I'm taking five days off work. I've given Ari the heads up.

God save the Queen.

~*~*~

[Continue to Entry 21-40](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/248082.html)


	2. Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This inspired by Belle Du Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the [](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/profile)[entourage_fest](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/).

**Title:** Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy  
**Entries:** 21-40 of 150  
**Status:** Complete  
**Fandom:** Entourage  
**Word Count:**~5,700  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Entourage or anyone who has ever appeared on it.  
**Pairing:** Vince/Eric, Vince/Pretty much everyone else except Turtle, Johnny, and the Golds (seriously)  
**Rating:** NC-17 for lots and lots of sex  
**Warnings:** AU, prostitution, mentions of past childhood physical abuse, BDSM, gay sex, straight sex, group sex, rape fantasy, fisting, wax play, a foot fetishist, mentions of daddy-kink, extremely brief mention of watersports. _If any of the particular warnings are squicks for you, send me a private message and I'll tell you which entry to avoid!_  
**Betas and helpers:** [](https://guest-age.livejournal.com/profile)[**guest_age**](https://guest-age.livejournal.com/), [](https://justabi.livejournal.com/profile)[**justabi**](https://justabi.livejournal.com/), [](https://allyndra.livejournal.com/profile)[**allyndra**](https://allyndra.livejournal.com/), [](https://ariadne83.livejournal.com/profile)[**ariadne83**](https://ariadne83.livejournal.com/), [](https://pesha.livejournal.com/profile)[**pesha**](https://pesha.livejournal.com/) and [](https://deepad.livejournal.com/profile)[**deepad**](https://deepad.livejournal.com/) were all completely indispensable. Thank you so much.  
**Authors Notes:** This inspired by Belle Du Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the [](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/profile)[**entourage_fest**](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/).

**Summary:** Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.

[Entry 1-20](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/247618.html?format=light)

Entry 21

This shouldn’t work. It really shouldn’t. I’ve seen porn where it happens and I know the mechanics, but rationally speaking, it's an insane thing to do. It shouldn’t feel this good.

Jesus, but it totally fucking does.

Freddy says something about the lube having a topical anesthetic, but I don’t listen. I’m too focused on not coming right that fucking second as he works his forth finger into me. And then he stops talking and wraps his lips around my dick and sucks.

Freddy doesn’t explain exactly how he gets his whole hand in me. But Jesus Christ, at some point after he starts sucking me, he tucks his thumb into his hand and pushes in. He twists his wrist so his fingers dig inside me and I scream and curl off the bed, my head coming up and sweat dripping down my forehead, making my hair stick and my eyes sting.

It burns and it's full and I’m sure I’m going to die. But then I don’t. I don’t, which is good because holy fuck, it feels so good I can’t even see.

I’ve done a lot of crazy shit in my time but this is a first. It’s not something I’d trust with a client and I don’t usually keep dates around long enough to get to this point. But that’s clearly a mistake on my part because I feel like there’s nothing to me but nerves.

I can feel him moving his hand inside me, curling it into a fist. God, God, God fucking yes.

I don’t know who he learned this on. I don’t care. He’s clearly had practice and that’s enough for me. I don’t know how he got the X through customs either, but it’s from Amsterdam and it makes me so loose and hot and giddy that he could bring in the entire defensive line of the Lakers and I probably wouldn’t notice. No. Wait. I think I’d notice. I just wouldn’t mind.

Wait. Do the Lakers even have a defensive line? I can't think clearly enough to remember that shit right now. 

I come in his mouth, his fuck puppet writhing on the end of his arm. He swallows, then he laughs as he pulls off. He runs his fingers over my stomach as his other hand keeps moving, twisting and rocking and turning me out.

He needs to go to Eastern Europe more often if this is what he learns while he’s there. I feel like I can taste his fist in the back of my throat and I’m choking on it, and all I want is more.

~*~*~

Entry 22

Afterwards, when I’m still high enough not to hurt too bad from the way he managed to work half his forearm inside me, we talk.

Freddy: I should’ve taped that. You were fucking hot, Sunshine.

Me: Next time. I bet it’d make a shitload on the internet. I look good on film.

Freddy: That you do. You look good everywhere, Vince.

Me: Thanks.

Freddy: I talked to Domenico and Stefano while I was in Milan. They think you’d look amazing in their clothes. I already know you do.

Me: Freddy—

Freddy: You’re not too old to start modeling. Male modeling’s a different game and they think you’re just as gorgeous as I do.

Me: I’ll think about it.

Freddy: Do.

I do think about it. He’s asked me a few times in the last few years since he started to get real pull with some of the bigger designers, but I’ve always said no. My brother and Turtle are here in L.A. The jobs he talks about are always somewhere insane like Helsinki or Bogotá.

I don’t think I can pick up and start over. Not again. Not yet.

~*~*~

Entry 23

Freddy only stays three days before he’s off to New York. I took off five because I knew for a fact that I’d need the other two to bounce back. My ass feels like a tractor rolled through it. Which is nice. Really fucking nice. But it does make doing the job a little harder than it needs to be.

I start back slow with a regular who’s a foot fetishist and submissive. I read the script Johnny gave me for the latest character development on his role on Days of Our Lives while the client rubs his dick against the arch of my left foot and sucks the toes of my right.

It’s low—impact and easy clean up. Plus, beyond the whole getting off on my feet thing, the guy gives a decent foot rub.

~*~*~

Entry 24

Back, crack, and sac waxing—the worst fucking thing ever devised. It never gets any easier. The Gold Standard agency’s got this policy about hair so I do it, but fuck. It always kills me.

Turtle has to drive me there; I don’t have a license or a car, and he mocks me mercilessly the entire way there and the whole way back. I take it though, because Turtle’s got enough job flexibility working for his girlfriend’s dad that he can actually take me to do stupid shit like this for work.

On the ride home, he’s got Biggie blasting loud enough to shake the windows of the Escalade he’s leased. I just want to get home.

I’m going to take two Percocet, weep, and pass out. Jesus.

~**~*~

Entry 25

I call my mother’s house once a month.

And then I get very, very high.

I love my ma more than life, but I can’t talk to her. I just can’t.

~*~*~

Entry 26

The client comes on my face and calls me a dirty whore. Then he smears it around with his dickhead and asks me if I like being filthy for him.

I say yes because that’s what I get paid for, but no. No, I don’t fucking like it.

Okay, I’m a whore. Fine. Not arguing that. And coming on my face, that’s cool. One of Johnny’s girlfriends once told me it’s good for your skin. But dirty? Come on, jerkoff.

My grandma used to say cleanliness is next to godliness. I work in sex, so that’s not just a saying to me. It’s a way of life. Like, beyond just the whole full body clean. You shave your face, yeah, and you put on deodorant but there’s more to it. This isn’t a date.

So, there’s other things. Like waxing (evil, evil, fucking evil) and trimming, and the money I spend keeping my hands and feet in good condition so that people like him will want me to put them on and in them.

And then there’s the inside job. My ass makes as much of my living as my dick, lips, or face and keeping it up to standard is unpleasant, but necessary. It’s not the most fun in the world, but it’s better than explaining to your client that no, it’s fine, that frothy mixture, that’s disgusting, but totally natural. Santorum's a mood killer and the mood is my job. So I take preparatory steps that go beyond condoms and lube.

So whore, yes. Dirty whore? Abso-fucking-lutely not.

He’s not going to be a regular. I get enough work to be discriminating.

~*~*~

Entry 27

Sometimes I wonder what the fuck I’m going to do when I get too old to work. I’m trying to save up, but a lot of what I make goes into paying my rent, buying the equipment I need, cab fare all over L.A. county, and, believe it or not, taxes. Plus, I’m shit at budgeting.

Sometimes I worry.

I try not to, though.

~*~*~

Entry 28

I don’t do virgins deflowerings. I don’t. They’re a lot of responsibility and I always feel like I shouldn’t have it. I’m not a responsible guy. I don’t even have any pets.

So I turn Ari down when a woman tries to book me to deflower her younger, untouched sister. Because I’m attractive and relatively harmless looking, I assume.

I’ve gotten a couple offers like this and the reasoning why I should is sound. Who knows how bad a person’s first might end up if I don’t take them up on it? I have experience. I get tested regularly. I’m polite and I know how to be gentle.

Yeah, she could end up with someone worse. But she could also end up with someone better. Either way, I just don’t like to go there.

Hey, we’ve all got lines. This is one of mine.

~*~*~

Entry 29

I’m out of Viagra. Not something I want to advertise, but I need to go to the pharmacy soon or there’s going to be a problem.

Contrary to the hooker/porn star legend, I can't get hard on demand. I work five days a week sometimes for hours at a time and a lot of the time the people I have to fuck are not people I find sexually attractive. I don’t always use it—if it’s a regular who I exclusively bottom for, if the job explicitly focuses around oral, that kind of thing.

So Ari’s got this pharmacist on tap. Apparently the guy’s got what we like to call “a fetish too far” and the Gold Standard takes care of it for him. It's not really above board—I don’t have ED—but the guy hooks me and the rest of Ari’s guys up even though we don’t medically need it.

Problem is, my health insurance (Mrs. Ari requires employees have it) doesn’t cover it what with me being under 30 and healthy and all. And I can't exactly recoup it as a tax deduction for work because, well, escorting is legal but hooking is not. Yeah, sex is legal and buying is legal, but buying sex isn’t legal. I don’t get it, either.

Point is, refills come out of my pocket and I have to get them a lot. Like now. I’ve got work tonight and it’s a top job. Sometimes it feels like this job is actual work, which is exactly what I got back into the business to avoid.

~*~*~

Entry 30

Johnny calls me at way-too-fucking-early-in-the-morning about getting lunch later in the day and I mumble something, reset my alarm so I can meet him at the Ivy (my treat), and go back to sleep.

I get there ten minutes before he does. He’s got a bad fake tan and a ridiculous hat but he’s happy. He’s got a guest spot on Days of Our Lives and it looks like its going to become a regular thing.

“This is great for me,” Johnny says. “You know soaps are a jumping off point. I could be lookin’ at a come back. ”

“I know Johnny. I’m happy for you. You’re way overdue. It’s all up from here, man. I can see it.”

“Damn right.”

He smiles at me, but he doesn’t ask any questions about my life. He knows what I do and he loves me, but he doesn’t like to hear it. I kinda think that the whole thing makes him sad. He’s got theories about where I got started, he told me when he was drunk once, and they make him feel guilty. They shouldn’t, though. He’s not responsible for the shit that happened before he left Queens. Hell, he’s the reason I’m even close to well adjusted.

He’s not responsible for what went down after he left, either. But Johnny’s always taken being a big brother very fucking seriously. He beat the living hell out of the old man for pushing me down the stairs in our apartment building right before he left New York. So I know trying to tell him otherwise isn’t going to be something he’ll hear.

So I talk about what I’ve read lately and what I think of the guy who’s playing Aquaman in James Cameron’s adaptation that I just saw the trailer for. I tell him about how I can get him tickets to the Emmys and he gives me that big grin that makes me feel like I’m a star and it's worth the o’dark-thirty phone call.

~*~*~

Entry 31

My client today is a CEO visiting from Japan and just…I don’t even fucking know.

Everybody’s got kinks. I’ve been on the prettier side of the industry for nearly ten years and I tend to pull more than my fair share of them. And I respect them. I do. God knows I’ve got my own.

But Jesus, man, international businessmen. I’ve heard stuff from other people in the agency. Rumor is they all lose their freaking minds once money changes hands. I think it's vacation syndrome—once you get far enough away from home to keep from getting caught, people go crazy.

For example I don’t see the appeal of watersports. I really don’t. I don’t see how me pissing on his face and in his mouth is attractive but you know, the customer’s always right. He got off and I didn’t have to get fucked by or fuck him. I’m just glad it wasn’t my bathroom, that’s all I’m saying.

~*~*~

Entry 32

Bob kills me. I wish to God I could drop him as a client, but I just _can’t_

Bob’s in his eighties. And most of the time, we don’t fuck. In fact, in all the time he’s been employing me as an escort, I’ve only actually had sex with him twice. Not because I’m not willing. I am. But he’s old and he’s tired and sex is great, but it’s not the thing he’s really looking for.

Bob’s lonely. He’s built an empire and it’s amazing. The guy made some of the greatest movies of all time. But he’s got no one but his housekeeper, and she goes home at night. I can see where that’d leave you needing.

So usually, he buys my time and it’s just that. My time. My company. My contact. I sit on his couch or deck or floor or bed and listen while he talks about the Hollywood fairy tale he lived. He ran with the greats of all time—Brando and Peck and Stewart and Hepburn and Monroe. He pays me to listen. But I remember because I care.

He’s going to die soon. Maybe not this year. Maybe not next year. Hopefully not for the next fifteen years. But one day sooner than me, he’s going to die. And he knows it. It scares him, which is reasonable because I like to think I’ve got a good forty to fifty years left and it scares _me_.

It sounds corny and cheesy and unbelievable, but we hold each other. Honest to fucking God, we do. I hold him and he clings to me and we sleep in his oversized, hand-carved bed. And when he cries, sometimes I cry with him.

I care about a lot of my clients. Some of them I consider to be work-friends. Some of them have been around long enough that I can’t help but care. Some of them I see once and they just kinda stick in my head. But I love Bob.

Yeah, I take the money he pays me to spend time with him, but I’ve turned down conflicting bookings Ari took that were a lot younger and a lot more attractive for Bob. My fee doesn’t change the fact that I do care for him deeply. I don’t think most people would understand, but sometimes, I need what he has to give. There aren’t many people out there who want to hold me.

~*~*~

Entry 33

I actually watched Johnny when he did his guest spot on Days. One of the things about working the night shift is that, well, I’m home at two in the afternoon. Yeah, usually I’m asleep, but I can wake up for that.

Thing is, he did almost three weeks worth of guest spots. I’ll admit it. I got hooked. It’s pathetic, but I can’t fucking stop myself. Of the many embarrassing things in my life, I’m completely fucking ashamed of how hot I find Bo and Hope. Seriously. I know Johnny tried to tap the actress who plays her, but I really just want to see the two of them fuck. Or be in the middle. Or something.

It’s pathetic. I’m aware. And the commercial break is over, so all my attention will be back on Days. I need to know what that psycho bastard Stephano is pulling this time.

~*~*~

Entry 34

Ari: I’ve got a job for you, Chase.

Me: Of course you do, Ari.

Ari: Couple job. Out of towners. The little lady wants you to suck her husband’s cock and then let him fuck you with it while she watches. You’re an anniversary present. Ain't love grand?

Me: How many years?

Ari: What’s it fucking matter?

Me: Did they tell you?

Ari: Fifteen.

Me: When?

Ari: Tomorrow night. Four Seasons. Suite 1123. You bring the lube. They don’t know what the hell they’re doing.

Me: They ask for any flavors?

Ari: What? Of the lube? Who fucking cares, Chase, baby. It’s their anniversary. Surprise ‘em.

Yet another typical conversation with Ari. For this I give him forty percent of every booking?

~*~*~

Entry 35

There’s a lot of paperwork involved in fucking a closeted movie star.

Let’s call him M.

M is a big name, fucking huge. He gets 20 million a picture and he has ties to the music industry, and he produces. M is a sex symbol and a superstar.

I’m surprised when the call comes in. He might be the most famous guy I’ve ever fucked and I had to sign so many non-disclosure agreements that I thought for a minute there I was selling my soul.

His house is a fucking palace. It’s got everything: ten bedrooms, an indoor pool, a sauna, a screening room, and even one of those arcade style Galaga games in his basement. His is one of my favorite episodes of MTV Cribs.

I come to him during the day in a van that’s got a maintenance logo on it. He opens the door, lets me in, and then locks the door behind me. Twice.

He won a People’s Choice or something and I’m his present to himself. He goes from room to room of his house while I take off my clothes in his living room. He’s checking that the curtains are closed.

“Paparazzi,” he says. He’s staring at me, hungry, with his lips parted just a little. He catches himself and laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’re fucking vultures.”

I stand in front of his couch, naked and smiling. “I’ve heard that.”

“A picture of you,” he says kneeling down in front of me, “like this—“ He kisses my bare stomach. “With me.” He rubs his cheek against my half-hard dick. I reach down and stroke his hair. “It’d be worth millions,” he sighs and I feel so fucking bad for him.

“Well, there is that saying about pictures. Worth a million words, or something like that.”

“Fuck words,” M says before sucking me down. It takes me exactly three seconds to go from half hard to rock hard and my hands in his hair fist instead of stroke. I fuck his mouth, moving his head back and forth with my hands because I can tell, I can tell from the way he holds his shoulders, moans around my dick, and his fingers dig into my thighs that he needs it. He doesn’t get it from places he should—a boyfriend, a lover, a one night stand. So I have to give it to him.

I don’t come in his mouth, though. He looks disappointed when I pull out, but that’s not what he really wants. The brief Mrs. Ari gave me was kind of specific.

“Do you want to do this here?” I ask, cupping his chin. “You want me to fuck you on your floor, leave stains on your carpet so you’ll remember me inside you every time you use this room?” He groans and shuts his eyes. “Or do you want to go to your bed so you can tear up your sheets and bury your face in your pillow when you come?”

A tear slides out of the corner of his shut eyes. I brush it off his cheek and pull him up to stand. He’s bigger than me, broad chest and shoulders, and just as tall as I am. He looks so strong on film but right now, he’s raw and open and desperate.

When he opens his eyes, they’re wet and so blue.

“It’s okay,” I say. And then I kiss him. “It’s okay, baby. It is.”

“Please.”

“I know.”

He covers my hand on his face with his own. “Please, Chase. Please.”

Okay. Bed then. I kiss him again, soft, all lips and no tongue, and then lead him to the back of his house. I don’t know the layout, but there’s only one door open; I assume that it’s his bedroom, and I’m right.

He lies on his back with his knees pulled up. I wonder how many times a year he gets fucked, gets to have anything with a man since he’s so very fucking gay, and so clearly needs it. Not enough judging by the way he watches me as I lube him up on the inside. He moans and whimpers and pushes himself up so that his head rests against the headboard so that even when his head goes to tip back, he can still see me.

“You are so beautiful,” he says and yeah, I’ve heard that before. I’ve heard that lots of times before. But he says it like he’s afraid I’ll disappear as he glides his hands over my shoulders and down my back. “Christ, you are so fucking beautiful.”

“So are you.” And its true. I mean, yeah, it’s the right thing to say, but he’s fucking gorgeous. I fuck into him slow and smooth. His hole is fucking hungry for me and it’s a pleasure. A genuine Goddamn pleasure to feel him tighten and spasm around me.

He gasps and the hand on my back goes from a stroke to a grab. His fingers are blunt and large and they push into my flanks. He focuses all his energy on watching my face and breathing deep as I fuck him.

His heels come up off the mattress and dig into my lower back. He uses my body to pull himself off the bed and up onto my dick. M gasps my name again and he begs, harder, please, harder. But I don’t go harder. That’s not what he needs and I know he’ll thank me for this later.

I fuck him slow and deep for almost twenty minutes. I’m holding myself up on one arm while the other reaches between us to stroke his dick. It burns, but it's worth it. M is a complete mess when he comes. His neck strains, his body curves into a C shape, pushing me in even deeper, he chokes, and God, he is beautiful. He really is.

When he’s done and the space between our stomachs is wet and sticky, he touches my face and pushes my bangs off of my forehead, but his fingers get caught in the curls. “Don’t stop. I want to see you come.”

M watches my face as I keep moving inside him. He’s soft now, but he grunts in time to my thrusts, little “uhn uhn” sounds that come from his chest, rather than his throat. I work the sounds out of him until I’m close, and then I kiss him while I come.

I pull out, take off the condom, tie it off, and throw it in the trashcan he has by his bed. Then I lie back down and he reaches out to me, lining his shoulder up to mine so that lying next to each other we’re touching all the way down our sides.

“Jesus fucking Christ, I needed that,” he sighs, staring up at his ceiling.

I try not to smile at him. I know he’s being serious. “I could tell.”

He turns his head at me and gives me a million-dollar smile. “We got time to go again?”

“You booked me for the whole day. You tell me?”

He rolls on top of me and kisses me. His passion is genuine, and so is his need. It’s like he’s at a buffet and he knows he won't get to eat freely again for months.

I wouldn’t trade my life for his, not for anything in the whole fucking universe. He’s so unhappy that he makes me and my issues seem like Mary Sunshine. At least I don’t have to hide from my friends and I only have to lie to my mother and I never talk to her anyway.

~*~*~

Entry 36

I hate working out. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have to. Lazy by nature, remember? But I get a blow job from my trainer, a cute blond girl in spandex shorts, when we’re done. I’ll call it even.

~*~*~

Entry 37

[Fiona](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=0189.jpg), the yoga teacher at my gym, insists on taking me out for dinner after class. She asks me what I do over veggie burgers and I hesitate.

“Shame is an unnecessary emotion.” She’s got the voice of a hippy and the glazed eyes to match. She gives me a dreamy smile. “Embrace your reality. It’s not my place to judge you. Just tell me.”

So fuck it, I tell her. And she stares at me for a long moment before she speaks. “That’s cool. Did you know that in certain cultures, prostitutes were holy vessels that did a public service for the gods?”

No. I didn’t.

“The Aztecs had male prostitutes that sanctified holidays and offered their sexual services as religious acts. The devadasis in India actually had more socio-sexual freedom than most women through their services. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you performing a service like that. People need it.”

I think so. But she’s the only one woman I’ve ever met who does, too.

“So do you fuck women?” she asks, leaning towards me over the small table.

I grin at her. Under the table, I slide my hand from her knee up her thigh. She shifts so that her legs spread and I slip my fingers under her shorts and panties and into her. She’s hot and wet. I brush my thumb over her clit and she gives a little gasp.

I rub small circles with my thumb for a few thrusts, then pull my hand free. My index finger shines in the light and I lick it clean. She tastes a little sweet and I think it's all the fruits and smoothies she eats.

Her lower lip drops and her eyes go dark as she watches me.

“I love women,” I say, letting my hand drop to my napkin.

“Me, too.”

“Really?”

“Sex is a physical expression of our connection to other human beings. I like to connect to lots of people, regardless of gender.”

“Same here. Connecting’s good.”

She smirks over the edge of her drink. “It’s the best.” Fiona rises from the table and walks towards the back of the restaurant. I count to ten and then follow her into the women’s room, locking the door behind me.

It’s a nice restaurant and there are three stalls. All of them are empty. The sinks are made of shiny black stone and she’s leaned up against them. I lift her up and set her down on the edge of the sink. She covers me in a condom and wraps her legs around my waist. I don’t take off her shorts or her underwear, just pull them to the side and fuck her right there on the sink. Fiona’s hands leave streaky sweat marks on the mirror behind her.

“What’re you doing tomorrow?” she asks, panting with her chin on my shoulder.

I bite the skin under her ear. “You.”

When she laughs it makes her internal muscles squeeze around my softening dick.

~*~*~

Entry 38

I am soooooooooooooooooo fucking high right now. Fiona knows this guy. He’s a Sherpa but he isn’t up on Everest or anything. His house is like, it’s like made of hemp.

He has greeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeat weed. And a big gun. Jesus. Crazy.

~*~*~

Entry 39

Johnny’s auditioning for this movie with some hotshot director. He drags me and Turtle along with him for moral support. It’s not your average audition. The director, Billy, called Johnny to his crazy apartment and it’s a fucking riot inside.

The whole place smells like weed. People are fucking in bedrooms with open doors. There’s a cluster of girls on the floor of the living room snorting coke off a hand mirror. Johnny and Turtle seem freaked. I pretend to be.

The director, I’m assuming, unfolds himself from behind the couch. He’s thin as a rail with a patchy beard, lanky black hair, and he’s tall. Taller than me by a good couple inches. “Johnny Drama! My favorite Viking. Glad you could make it.”

Johnny nods and does his best to look cool. He’s crap at it, but he gets points for trying. “Billy, hey.”

“Nice to see I was right. You are one ugly son of a bitch. Don’t argue. It’s good. It really works for the role. I’m going for understated grotesque.”

He pushes an unlit cigarette between his lips and then looks at me. I get stared at all the time so it's something I’ve gotten comfortable with. But Billy’s eyes almost dig into me. It’s invasive and uncomfortable. And kind of hot.

“You get bonus points from bringing someone so fuckable with you.” He holds out a hand to me. “Billy Walsh.”

“Billy, this is my baby bro, Vince.”

I shake his hand as he eyefucks me. His hand’s bigger than mine, long fingers that squeeze my hand a little too hard. It makes me think he’d do everything too hard.

It makes me wonder where I’d bruise and what colors they’d be.

He’s not my type. He’s messy and looks like he probably hasn’t showered in a few days. I shouldn’t like him. He’s a greasy asshole who just insulted my brother. And his hand on mine is starting to hurt but fuck, it’s turning me on.

“You are Goddamn edible, aren’t you?” he asks like he means it, no double entendre. Flat out want that reads as totally fucking honest.

He knows. I know he knows I’m hard and the knowledge hits me like a fist to the gut, turning me on even more. I wouldn’t have to ask him for anything. Billy’s the kind of guy who’ll just take and take and take, if I can let him.

“Parts of me,” I reply. It’s as good as an invitation.

His hand moves up and wraps tight around my wrist. I have to choke on a gasp because Johnny and Turtle are right fucking here. They’re right beside me and I can feel my brain slipping into that dark place where I don’t have to do anything but do what I’m told and just feel.

He squeezes a little tighter, just enough for it to really hurt for a second, and then lets go completely. It’s kind of trippy how hard I crash back into the conversation, horny and disoriented.

“So listen, I’m gonna give your brother the part anyway, but I’ve got like six tabs of LSD and a room with a lock. You wanna fuck?”

“How about you fuck yourself?” Turtle spits before I can say anything (like for example, “Fuck yes, how do you want me?”).

“Turtle, come on,” Johnny says, desperate to smooth this down before it blows up and he looses his one shot at a real comeback.

“I didn’t ask you, tubby.”

“Hey who you calling tubby you tweaky faggot fuck?”

I have to get Turtle out of there before he gets arrested or something. I drag him out, leaving Johnny to talk about the role with Billy, because Kelly wouldn’t forgive me if she had to come get us out of lock up. So I don’t fuck Billy.

But I do spend the drive home reaming Turtle a new one for using the F word. And not “fuck.” I think he sometimes forgets I that I kind of am one.

Whatever. Johnny’s gonna be doing Billy’s movie, though. So there’ll be other chances.

~*~*~

Entry 40

The agency puts me with a female client who likes me to dress up like a woman. The androgyny gets her hot. So she sets me up in a room in the Peninsula. The girl’s an heiress and a famous one, so there’s no expense spared. The outfit’s waiting for me in the room when I get there.

It’s designer and, I think, completely ridiculous. But I don’t get paid to judge what other people find sexy. I get paid to be it.

I put on a dress, hose (Cause fuck if I’m shaving or waxing my legs. All my clients other like me male), and high heels that make me want to personally apologize to every woman alive. Mrs. Ari sends over the Rope Girl to help me with the make up. It takes forever, especially the eyeliner. When she leaves, I put on jewelry and clip on earrings and the client is actually speechless for a few seconds when she sees me.

“Fuck me.” She pushes up my skirt. Her hand finds my dick through the fabric of the heinously uncomfortable panties Mrs. Ari told me to wear for her. “Fuck me right now.”

I do. The thick red lipstick Rope Girl put on my lips ends up all over her face, neck, and breasts. When it's all gone, she stops and puts more on me. She looks kind of like spin art when we’re done.

Then she spends the rest of the time we have booked alternately staring at me and fondling me through the dress.

~*~*~

[Continue to Entry 41-55](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/248741.html)


	3. Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This inspired by Belle Du Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the [](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/profile)[entourage_fest](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/).

**Title:** Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy  
**Entries:** 41-55 of 151  
**Status:** Complete  
**Fandom:** Entourage  
**Word Count:**~6,700  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Entourage or anyone who has ever appeared on it.  
**Pairing:** Vince/Eric, Vince/Pretty much everyone else except Turtle, Johnny, and the Golds (seriously)  
**Rating:** NC-17 for lots and lots of sex  
**Warnings:** AU, prostitution, mentions of past childhood physical abuse, BDSM, gay sex, straight sex, group sex, rape fantasy, fisting, wax play, a foot fetishist, mentions of daddy-kink, extremely brief mention of watersports. _If any of the particular warnings are squicks for you, send me a private message and I'll tell you which entry to avoid!_  
**Betas and helpers:** [](https://guest-age.livejournal.com/profile)[**guest_age**](https://guest-age.livejournal.com/), [](https://justabi.livejournal.com/profile)[**justabi**](https://justabi.livejournal.com/), [](https://allyndra.livejournal.com/profile)[**allyndra**](https://allyndra.livejournal.com/), [](https://ariadne83.livejournal.com/profile)[**ariadne83**](https://ariadne83.livejournal.com/), [](https://pesha.livejournal.com/profile)[**pesha**](https://pesha.livejournal.com/) and [](https://deepad.livejournal.com/profile)[**deepad**](https://deepad.livejournal.com/) were all completely indispensable. Thank you so much.  
**Authors Notes:** This inspired by Belle Du Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the [](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/profile)[**entourage_fest**](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/).

**Summary:** Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.

[Entry 1-20](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/247618.html?format=light)   
[Entry 21-40](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/248082.html?format=light)

  
Entry 41

Johnny's director calls me. He gives me his address and tells me to come over. Not asks. Tells. I go from zero to rock hard at the order.

I don't know where the fuck he got the number.

And I don't care.

The cab can't get here fast enough.

~*~*~

Entry 42

Billy's a wiry, manic bastard. He's kind of like a stray dog. Not that I've fucked a stray dog or any dog——I've got limits and zoo is one of the big ones. But he reminds me of the dogs that used to hang around the neighborhood when I was growing up: thin and hungry with crazy eyes.

And hell, maybe that's what turns me on so much about him: how intense he is. It's like he's burning up from the inside out. I want to him to burn me.

He's waiting for me in the hallway of his apartment when the cab drops me off. He grinds out his cigarette on the carpet to reach for me.

Billy grabs my hair with both his hands and drags me forward into a kiss. Our teeth click together and I haven't wanted someone this bad in years. When we break to breathe, my lower lip is bleeding. It tastes coppery and a little hot, and it just makes me want to kiss him more.

"You fucking inspire me, Vince," Billy hisses at me. He takes a fistful of my shirt and drags me into his apartment behind him. He's a director——moving people comes easily to him. I really like being moved but more than that, I like the way he moves me: rough and violent but not thoughtless. "I haven't been able to stop writing since I met you."

"Anything good?" I ask while my hands are busy undoing his belt. It's cheap, from Wal-Mart or maybe one of the Salvation Army stores because Billy isn't just unhinged enough to give me what I need, he's also got his feet in the real world—unlike the beautiful people who pay and praise to fuck me.

He bites at my shoulder hard enough to leave teeth marks through my t-shirt and then shoves me back into the door. My shoulder blades hit the wall and pain jars up and down my spine that makes me want it more. "All of it's good, Vinny. Jesus, you fucking move me, man."

He undoes the top button and zipper of my jeans and then pulls them down. He follows, taking my boxers with him. Then he's on his knees in front of me, sucking my cock so hard I slap the doorframe with the palm of my hand.

"Ugh, Jesus, Billy, fuck!"

This isn't what I was expecting. I thought I'd be on my knees for him, with his hands holding my ears or my hair as he fucked my face. The position throws me off balance, and I haven't felt unbalanced during sex since I was a kid.

It makes me nervous, unsteady, and scared—and so hot I can barely form words. I reach for his head, trying to get back a little control, but he laughs and smacks my hands away hard enough to sting.

When I've pressed my hands back against the wall, Billy puts two fingers into his mouth alongside my dick. He makes a few wet slurping noises and then pushes the wet digits into my ass. I hit the door again so hard it makes my hand hurt. His fingers twist then crook right onto my prostate.

"Fuck! Billy!"

He laughs again, then hums, and the vibrations fucking end me. I'm fucking dying, thrusting between his hand and his mouth until I come, so hard that my vision goes white, and Billy holding me against the door is the only thing keeping me upright.

He swallows and it's a loud, messy sound. He licks his lips as he stands up. His eyes are wild and I want my eyes to be like that. I want to get that far out of control. I don't think I am yet, but I want to be.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard, Vince."

He licks a stripe up my neck and bites my earlobe. His voice is deeper than before. And I want it so bad that I'm gagging for it.

"You want it, Vinny?"

"Fuck me." It's all I can manage. That's what my world's shrunk to. "Fucking fuck me."

We don't make it to the bed. We get as far as the floor three feet from the door before he's got a condom on and me on my hands and knees. The only cushion is the pile of my shirt and pants under my knees, and I don't need more than that. I plant my forehead on my forearms and can't do anything but grunt and take it as he fucks me from behind. His dick slams hard in and out, jarring my prostate and sending my body rocking back and forth.

He balances himself with one hand on my back as he fucks me. Then he reaches down with his other hand and grabs my hair, pulling me up and back so that my neck is arched and my face is upturned. He doesn't slow down to lean forward and suck a large purple hickey into the patch of skin on the side of my neck.

I beg him to go harder, faster, fuck me more, and he does. I feel like my teeth might come loose and I feel like I'm going to come again, but it's too soon and too much.

My upper arms give out on me and I end up with my chest pressed against the floor. There's going to be carpet burn on my chest and cheek as he pushes me across the room with the way he slam-fucks me. It feels good. I'm not thinking. I'm just spasming and panting and fucked and fucked and fucked.

When Billy comes, he falls down on top of me in a sweaty heap and my legs fail me, too. I crash the rest of the way to ground and it jars through my joints just enough to keep me from passing out.

We managed to drag ourselves to the couch. Billy fishes out a blunt from between the cushions and it's clear that's the closest thing to scene aftercare I'm going get. He lights it and hands it to me, dragging my feet into his lap. He curls his hand around my ankle like a shackle, and it anchors me.

I take a long deep hit and my head goes a little loopy as I hand it to him. I watch Billy's chest expand under his shirt before he exhales slowly at the ceiling fan. He passes it back and gives me a lopsided grin.

"You could be my fucking muse, you know that?"

I take another hit and his words come to me slower and then repeat, circling round and round in my head. I don't mind that I'm naked and he still has all his clothes on. In fact, I kinda like it this way.

~*~*~

Entry 43

Turtle asks me about the hickey. I don't lie but I don't tell him who gave it to me either. I say I had a wild night and leave it at that. I need a ride to my waxing and I don't want to have a fight.

~*~*~

Entry 44

Scott asks about the bruises on my back. I say I fell. He doesn't believe me. But he seems happy enough to watch me fuck his nineteen year-old boytoy on the deck by his pool. So I guess it's okay.

~*~*~

Entry 45

Billy comes over and we fuck in my bed. And then in my shower. And then we fuck again on my kitchen counter. (My foot ends up in a sandwich, I don't know how.) And once more on my couch.

He's not a good-looking guy. I've fucked many pretty people in my life and he's not one of them. But he's aggressive and passionate as hell and a natural Dom, which is actually kind of a relief. I don't have to explain that I want him to hold me down by the neck while he fucks me——he just does it. I don't have to ask.

Freddy's British and a gentleman, pretty much to a fault. He's so polite that I've been to orgies with him where we waited in line to have group sex. But Billy's an animal about it. He doesn't check if it's what I want. He doesn't say please or thank you—he just takes.

I don't have to fake the L.A. cool with Billy, either. Billy's New York. We rode the same subway trains in Manhattan and we both know about that hot dog stand on 7th. He grew up with money over in Scarsdale but he's still New York—loud and pushy and a little angry. Or a lot angry in Billy's case, whenever someone from the studio calls.

I don't mind though. Him yelling at someone else actually turns me on. I listen to his accent and try to remember what E's sounds like. I think it's kind of a mix of Johnny's and Billy's because I can't hear it in my head anymore. I used to be able to.

When he hangs up the phone, he grabs me around the waist and pushes me against the table. He puts on a condom that has just enough lube to not ruin me and then I stop trying to remember.

Billy makes me do stupid careless shit. He makes me not care that I've spent the whole day fucking when I have a client that night. He leaves fingernail marks and bites all over me. He kind of scares me when he talks about film and passion and angst and all that crap. And then I just want to fuck again.

I haven't told him what I do yet. I'm waiting for Johnny to finish filming. I don't think he's going to be happy and I don't want his reaction to fuck this up for Johnny; he needs it.

~*~*~

Entry 46

The client, [Nicky](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=0045-1.jpg), can't stay hard. He's only in his early thirties, so this shouldn't be a problem for him. He's been to the doctor and it's not physical, so who the fuck knows. Whatever's causing it, it's a source of huge insecurity for him and he blames me, himself, his ex, his childhood fuck buddy, his overbearing father, his too-affectionate high school math teacher, all the coke. But none of that changes the fact that he can't get hard and he's paid me to get him off.

"Roll over on your stomach."

"Why?"

I kiss his shoulder as an assurance. "I know what I'm doing. Just relax. I'll take care of you."

I put a condom over my right middle and index finger and lube it, making sure I've warmed it with my hands before I push into him. The poor guy just needs to come. I kiss his neck and fondle his balls with my left hand while I milk his prostate. It takes just under a half an hour for the come to dribble out of his dick, but he seems so much more relaxed that I'm kind of glad he booked me.

"Buy a vibrator," I suggest when I leave. I write a few brands down on the hotel stationary and hand it to Nicky before I walk out the door, leaving him in a relieved heap on the bed.

~*~*~

Entry 47

I'm out of peanut butter and I don't really want anything but a peanut butter sandwich. Johnny's filming another guest spot on Days, Turtle's at work, and I can't get through to my normal cab company.

This is L.A. There's gotta be someone who'll deliver PB and J right?

Edit: Found it. It'll be here in twenty minutes. God, I love this town.

~*~*~

Entry 48

I kneel at the client's feet and he tugs at the clamps on my nipples a little too sharply. I hiss and clench my teeth, but I don't look up from the floor. I don't have permission.

I don't do sub jobs often. Mrs. Ari doesn't like Ari to assign them to me. I fall into the role too easy. But this guy, [Yair Marx](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=0033-2.jpg), he's someone Ari doesn't want to lose as a client, and part of why she doesn't usually let me do it is because I'm the best.

But in this instance, work trumps worry, and I get the booking. Ari actually thanks me. That probably has something to do with the fact that I hear he's made of money and he's got a taste for prostitutes because [his wife](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=0096-1.jpg)'s a castrating bitch.

She also turns out to be an incredibly kinky castrating bitch. She sits in the corner of the room wearing one of Yair's shirts and nothing else, idly fingering herself as she watches me and her husband.

"Will you beg for me, my lovely? Will you cry?" He asks, tugging again. It's amazing how bad it hurts when he does that, how much it turns me on. I can barely think to answer.

I keep my eyes locked on the floor. I haven't been given permission to look up yet. "Whatever you want, sir."

"I want you hungry for my cock." He strokes my face with thick, gentle fingers. They drop down to stroke to top of my neck above the thick steel and leather control collar. There's a metal bar welded to the back that attaches to the shackles chaining my wrists behind me. It keeps me upright and completely rigid. "If you beg me pretty enough, my lovely, I'll let you have it. Go on." He tips my chin back with his hand. "Beg me for what you need."

I lick my lips, swallow hard, and the words pour out of me like liquid. "Please, sir, please fuck me, please use me, please. Please let me have your cock. I need it. I need you to use me. I need you to hurt me. Please, sir. Please. I need your cock, sir. Please, please let me have it."

His hand pulls again and again as I speak and it tugs on the chain, yanking on my nipples. My eyes water and my begging increases as, for that moment, I'm lost in the role. I really do want it, need it—to beg as much as to be used. "I promise I'll be good, sir, please. Please just let me have it. Please fuck me, sir, please. Please. I'm so fucking hungry for it. Please, God, please, sir."

"You should give the bitch what he asks for," the wife says. She crosses the room and stands behind her husband, running her hands over his chest, undoing the buttons of his shirt and tugging it off. Her hand disappears into his pants and he groans. "Fuck him, Yair," she murmurs as she takes his dick out. "Make the little bitch scream for me."

She steps back from him and walks around to me. She sneers down at me before bending down, pressing her breasts into my face. She whispers something in my ear in a language I can't understand, bites my lobe, and then Jesus fucking Christ, the nipple clamps are gone. I cry out at the pain as blood rushes back in.

She laughs, walking around behind me. With careful force, she puts her foot on my back. She gives a hard kick and I fall forward, my face hitting the carpet with a dazzling amount of pain.

My body and the floor make a triangle shape together. I've just got my shoulders relaxed enough to handle the new position when I feel Yair's fingers on my hips. His condom-covered dick presses against my asshole, but doesn't push in.

"Say please," he orders, running his hand along the bar on my back.

"Please, sir. Please fuck me." My mouth doesn't work right pressed into the rug like this, so it comes out slurred and sloppy. But they can both hear me and he pushes all the way in.

It's actually a relief. It feels good and it's enough sensation in one place that I can mostly drift off into subspace. I force myself not to go there, not to disappear into my own head, and listen to their accented voices talking to each other. It's clear from their tone who the real Dominant is here, and it's not Yair.

I'm a little surprised when she lies down in front of me on her back. It fades when she reaches down, picks my head up by the hair, spreads her legs, and yanks my face to her pussy, though.

"Make me come, little bitch." she commands.

"Yes, Mistress," I murmur before flicking my tongue towards her clit.

She doesn't let go of my hair as I eat her. It hurts like a motherfucker but I've got a tough scalp. She could find a more comfortable way to hold me but if she lets go, I'd fall into her crotch and not be able to get up.

The little gasps forced out of my lungs by Yair fucking me are muffled as they follow my tongue into her pussy. I'm having a hard time breathing with my nose and mouth pressed against her so I finish her as well and as fast as I can. She comes before Yair. I can feel it on my lips and around my tongue. When she's done, she lets my head drop back to the carpet and climbs to her feet.

I can't see anything but the thread of the rug anymore. But I can hear her. She's calling Yair names. Occasionally, I hear the sound of a hand slapping against flesh and Yair cursing in Arabic.

It feels like forever and a half before Yair finally comes. When he does, he slams his pelvis against my ass so hard I think it'll leave a mark and he shouts his orgasm.

He flops down on top of me for a few seconds before he pulls out. They leave me there, open, exposed, and hard on the floor for at least ten minutes while they go shower off. I'm about to call out for help—from Ari, from them, I'm not sure—when Yair pushes me back to an upright position and starts to undo my restraints.

The wife runs her fingernail down my jaw and over a lip once I've got my clothes back on. "We'll have to do this again sometime, Chase."  
  
Yeah, not for a long fucking time, I think.

My back, shoulders, and neck are killing me. There are marks on my neck and wrists that I won't be able to hide. Ari's gonna have to give me some time to bounce back. And maybe an appointment with that personal masseuse I know he's got hidden somewhere.

But the tip is almost obscene.

~*~*~

Entry 49

My back is fucking killing me from last night, so I'm not getting out of bed today. There's a Steve McQueen marathon on SpikeTV, so that settles it. I'm just staying in bed. I hurt too much too get up anyway.

~*~*~

Entry 50

Johnny has finally got an agent again. Thank God for that. He's been unrepresented since before I got to L.A. He hid it and it was wearing on him.

The guy's name's [Weinstein](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=0019.jpg) and everything Johnny's said about him makes him sound like a real asshole, but it's a start. Easier to find a job when you've got one, that's what my ma used to say.

He's talking about TV and I think that'd be good for him. Something steady. Johnny's got a bigger hard-on for the biz than anyone on earth and more than almost anything, I want my big bro to succeed. I don't think it'll fix everything for him. Johnny's a huge self-sabotager, but maybe I won't need to "loan" him money anymore and we won't have that between us. I don't mind, I can afford it. I just hate the look in his eyes when he has to borrow money from me.

Anyway, Weinstein reps the writer of the movie. I know Billy talked to him about Johnny. I love fucking Billy, but hope to Christ he didn't call Weinstein because of me.

~*~*~

Entry 51

Client's a woman in her early fifties. Her husband is a big wig at Warner Brothers who hasn't eaten box in almost fifteen years. She got sick of it fourteen years ago but they had three children, two under ten at the time, so she didn't feel like she could leave. Abandonment, she says, is permission to cheat. Or at least to buy a hooker.

She's had a few regulars with a few agencies over the years, but the one she had with Ari just retired. So she's shopping for a new one, trying out different escorts until she finds the right one to be her next regular.

"I deserve orgasms as much as the next person," she says to me even though I didn't ask her anything. "And since [Alan](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=0073-1.jpg) won't give them to me, I think I deserve them from someone as handsome as you."

Then she steps out of her tailored pants suit and then lies down naked on the bed. She's not bad for her age. She's had a great surgeon. I can barely see the surgical scars.

I'm sure hers isn't the first rejuvenated vagina I've ever eaten. This L.A. But it's the first one I've ever known about before I went down. I don't know why she bothered. I can't tell the difference either way.

~*~*~

Entry 52

Turtle's found a guy, a rapper. Kelly's best friend's sister dated him or something. I don't know, I'm not really clear on the connection, but he's found this guy [Saigon](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=saigon-on-entourage-1.jpg)'s demo in one of Rufus' cars and now he's trying to represent and bank roll him. He's gotten backing from like, six local businesses including Rufus' car and stereo shops, and he also managed to talk his dealer Black Hack into lending him like ten grand.

So when he actually books Saigon a gig, everyone Turtle knows is there with fucking bells on. It's in a dive in East L.A., but the place is packed. Turtle's running around talking to people, shaking hands, talking trash, and Kelly stands with me and Johnny, smiling.

I drape my arm over her shoulders and lean down so I can talk directly into her ear. "He's doing great, Kel."

She's tiny and her hair's pinned up in a complicated series of shiny black curls. She has to go up on her toes a little to answer back into my ear.

"I've never seen him work so hard at anything. He really wants this. I'm so proud of him. "

"It's pretty amazing."

"He's amazing. I'm gonna go over there." She gives me a one-armed hug around the waist before disappearing into the crowd.

I hope to God Turtle is smart about this and has the good sense to marry this woman. Yeah, her dad's kinda scary, but she loves him and not only thinks the world of him, she drives him to be better. Turtle deserves something like that in his life.

I watch them from across the club for a while before I head to the bar for a drink. Halfway through Saigon's second set, I strike up a conversation with a short girl whose got skin the color of milk chocolate, fantastic breasts, and a slightly crooked smile. The only thing I can think about while we talk is licking her all over. I smile and touch her hand at the end of the night she offers me a ride back to her place.

It's a two bedroom nearby. Despite that, her roommate is asleep on the couch when we walk in.

"She sleeps like the dead," she promises, leading me into the small kitchen. She opens the fridge and stares inside. "You want anything? Something to drink?"

"I want to taste you."

It's a fucking line, but it's also true. And I've got great delivery. She stares at me for a long moment, mouth slightly open, her hand on the refrigerator door. Then she moves forward and jumps me. Her legs wrap around my waist and her arms twine around my shoulders. Her mouth tastes like beer and I stumble forward into the open door.

It's fucking cold standing there, but she's tight and hot and it's something I've never done before. She braces her weight against the door a little too heavily when she comes, and I hear something break. We stumble as the door slams into the counter and I can hear her roommate waking up.

I don't fucking care by then though, I'm too close to orgasm and so is she. Her roommate starts screaming at her before we come. But she tells me to ignore it, ignore it, fuck me, ignore it until after we've both gotten off and are leaning against the broken refrigerator.

I get out before the fight between her and her roommate escalates to blows. But just barely.

~*~*~

Entry 53

Billy shows up at my apartment around four in the afternoon. The movie's got some location shoots that're going to take him to Vancouver, so it pretty much all ends here and I'm starting to think that maybe that's a good thing.

When we're not fucking, it's friendship with an edge of worship that freaks me out a little. I don't know what he thinks is going on, but it's more for him. It's an obsessive thing that has him showing up at weird hours in weird mental states.

He's brilliant. A serious creative fucking genius, and I envy him. I want to be able to make something meaningful like he does. But the longer this goes on, the more the eccentric side of his genius leaks out, and the more possessive he gets. The more he's around, the harder my job gets to hide and I know that, while Billy's a big fan of prostitution, he wouldn't want the guy he's fucking regularly to be one. All of it makes me pretty positive that it's time to stop, at least for a while.

I'm going to miss the sex, though. When we are fucking, I feel like at any minute, he'll rip me apart to get at my insides. It's kind of brutal, the way he talks to me, touches me. If Turtle knew the details, he'd probably say that what we've got going on is bordering on psychotic.

I can't seem to stop, though. I've only been with a couple of people in my life who make me come as hard or as long as Billy.

The D/s stuff that always happens in bed with him, it's not a game. There're no safe words. There's no gentleness. I don't call him Master, and he doesn't call me names. He doesn't want to discuss boundaries or rules or anything beforehand, and there's definitely no time for emotional rebound afterwards. It's not play. To be honest, that kind of scares me. But it's the only way Billy knows how to fuck.

And it's how he fucks me when he shows up. He drops the weed on my hall table and then manhandles me onto my couch. I burrow my face in one of the cushions as he fucks and fucks and fucks me. He has one knee on the couch and one foot on the floor and he snaps his hips forward and down, pushing his dick inside with a violence that knocks the breath out of my chest and has me tearing at the upholstery. His right hand reaches under me and jerks my dick, and I come on the sofa, leaving a mess that I'm going to have to get steam cleaned out.

I lie there for another five minutes while Billy finishes fucking me. Now that I've gotten off, he's rougher, careless and greedy, and it leaves me feeling dirty in a way that makes me wish I could get hard again. When he comes, it's with a loud groan and biting nails digging sharply into my neck. I think they might have broken the skin, but I can't tell from my face-down position.

I only move a little, so that I can see him, after he pulls out and trashes the condom. The weed's a present and we don't smoke it. But he does pull out a cigarette and offer one to me. I don't smoke or like people smoking inside, but I don't try to stop him. I just shake my head and watch him light up.

"You should come with me to Canada, Vinny. It's Bumfuck Nowhere, but it's supposed to be beautiful. Pristine Goddamn nature everywhere. You can keep me from getting so bored I kill myself."

"I can't. I've got work."

"Yeah, you're an assistant. To fucking who, Vinny? You never do anything."

"That's what makes it a good job." I reply with a grin as I reach down for my boxers.

"Look if you don't wanna go—"

I sit up and pull my boxers on, feeling a little more like myself now that I'm not naked anymore. The answer, of course, is no, I don't want to go. Things are finally turning around for my family and I want to be here to see it. Also, being alone with Billy in the frozen north? It's like the queer version of The Shining just waiting to happen. I'd give it two weeks and he'd be hacking down doors, trying to kill me with an axe.

"I don't."

Billy's whole face falls, then I can see him start to get angry. "What the fuck, Vinny? I thought—"

"Come on, Billy. Don't do this."

"Fuck you, Vince. I'm not doing anything."

"You're being fucking unreasonable and you're getting ash on my carpet. So that's two things."

"We've got something going here."

"Yeah," I sigh. "And I think we can put it on pause. Go have fun in Canada and New York or wherever. I'll have fun here."

Billy smokes the cigarette faster than usual and I can almost see the hamster running on a wheel in his brain. I don't know what he's thinking, but it makes me nervous.

"I'm gonna call you when I get back."

I shrug. "If you want."

"Christ, Vinny. Christ."

I kiss him. It's a sloppy kiss that's almost a battle. But I'm pretty sure it's the end. At least for now.

~*~*~

Entry 54

Kelly's playing her Justine Chapin album in Turtle's car when he picks up me and Johnny from Johnny's place to go for dinner with them. We tease him brutally for about ten miles until Kelly makes us stop because she likes this song and she's not driving, so she can come back there and smack us both. There's a little bit more laughing at Turtle's expense, but it somehow turns into a conversation about her alleged Pure Tour.

"She's not a virgin," Kelly declares.

"How do you know?" Johnny throws back, perpetuating the arguments brewing about her since the day Justine skanked into pop from the Christian rock scene.

"I can tell from the way she sings," Kelly says as we park the car. She slides herself under Turtle's arm as we walk across the parking lot to the restaurant. "Besides, girls can tell and that ho? She's no virgin. No virgin tattoos a snake above her pussy."

"What's the big deal anyway?" I ask. "So she hasn't fucked anyone yet. She will."

"Come on, Vin," Turtle chides me. "Your first time's a big deal."

"If you say so." I shrug. I had two. Well, I'll call it three. And they were all…what they were.

"It doesn't matter," Kelly argues. "Because she's not a virgin."

By the time we get seated, it's become a virginity tell all. The conversation's become about who did what to whom and when. I just sit and listen.

"Tracy Richter," Johnny declares. "What a mess. I always hoped I'd get to re-fuck her. Do it right. She married Lou de Carlo right outta high school, though."

"He'd break your face open if you tried." Turtle laughed.

Johnny puffed up a little. "I could take him."

"Yeah, with a loaded weapon," I added with a smile. "He kicked Dom's ass back when we were in high school, Johnny. You're better off with the mess."

"Reggie St. Fleur," Kelly sighs. She gets a distant look in her eyes and her lips curl in a half-smile.

Turtle gives her a gentle shove and then sulks back in his chair. "Hey!"

"Relax baby, it was high school. He was in the computer club and he had real delicate hands." She lifts her own hands as she talks and yeah, I have been there. I try not to grin too hard.

"I got good hands."

"You have great hands," Kelly agrees, picking up and kissing the back of one when our waiter comes by with our drinks. "What about yours?"

"Older woman," Turtle says and looks down at the table, anywhere but at his girlfriend.

"Older woman," I parrot. "Turtle, come on, Claudia wasn't that much older."

"She was a hooker in her thirties," Johnny laughs. "Didn't she decline your mom's credit card?"

"Shut up, Drama."

I say nothing, just let them fight about the hooker Turtle lost it to after a bidding war and he stole 40 bucks from his cousin. Drama accuses him of only paying thirty and I try not to think about how much my first experience with hooking was.

"What about you, Vince?"

I lift my hands. "I don't remember."

"Bullshit," Kelly harps from across the table. "Everybody remembers their first."

"Well, I don't."

"I remember, Vin. It was Cindy Davis, behind the arcade at Nathan's."

Mm. Cindy. I remember her. She was good. Early, too. I'd just turned fourteen. E was still around then. He even went steady with her friend Amy for a couple weeks.

"Yeah, you may be right."

"Yeah, you may be right," Kelly repeats, shaking her head. She points a carefully painted fingernail at me. "Bullshit, Vince. Bull. Shit. You remember your first and Justine Flat-Ass Chapin is no fucking virgin."

The food arrives then, cutting the conversation off, but I'm stuck there. It's like Kelly's finger never stops pointing at me and I can't get out of my own head.

Of course I remember my firsts. They weren't your average go-arounds and some of them sucked.

Okay two of them sucked. I did anyway, on my knees on the tile in the tunnel in the East Village. Drama doesn't believe you can get a hooker for under twenty bucks in New York anymore. I don't know if that still stands, what with inflation and all, but about twelve years ago, some guy paid me ten bucks for me to suck him off and then let him come on my face. It was hours before I could get to a sink to wash the stickiness off, so I slept with the residue on me, stretched out under the chairs in the subway. But at least I wasn't hungry.

E's cousin Sheryl was better, but nothing worth talking about. She was fifteen, I was thirteen, and it happened so fast that I didn't know what was going on until it was too late to really enjoy it. One minute we were in E's basement, waiting for him to come back from the store with his dad, and the next thing I knew we were kissing. And then she was on top of me. That lasted all of ten seconds before I came and she hopped off, unimpressed.

"Don't tell Eric about this," I said to her, feeling terrified and no more mature than I had two minutes ago.

"Don't sweat it, heartbreaker." She'd ruffled my hair like a puppy and straightened her skirt.

E came down a minute later and I felt nothing but guilty.

The only other first time worth mentioning was Jimmy, and I don't think Johnny or Turtle would like to hear it, so I wait until after we leave. Turtle's driving and Drama complains of getting carsick so I sit in the back of the SUV with Kelly.

"Jimmy Leary," I say to her softly.

"What?"

"My first, the one that counts."

"You don't get more than one, Vince."

"Then I'm gonna go with him."

"Yeah?"

I nod and glance into the front of the car. Johnny's got his forehead resting against the glass. Turtle's pretending not to tap his fingers in time to one of Justine's songs.

"Keep it to yourself, okay? It's not something the guys are going to want to hear."

"Yeah, it's between you and me." She smiles at me, enjoying the secret. "Was it good at least?"

Yes, it fucking was. The first time it ever was good with a man was with Jimmy, a theater queen I'd ignored when I was still in school. And when I came back to get my GED, there he was: taller, stronger, and broader than the fey guy he was when I left, and in his senior year of high school. We'd done some plays together before I dropped out. He recognized me when I was walking out of the building after signing up for night classes and followed me all the way to a diner around the corner.

"What've you been up to, gorgeous?" he'd asked me.

I had shrugged and mumbled something about keeping busy. He gave me the once over, studied the clothes I'd been wearing when I got off work (a tanktop and tight pants, which screamed, "Please fuck me. I'm a money hungry, cock sucking twink,"), and invited me back to his mother's. He never mentions what was keeping me busy, but it's clear that he knows.

It took less than a week of crashing on his floor for me to offer to fuck him. It took him another week to say yes. And when he did, it was good, good like it had never been with a guy. I count him because he was the first guy I ever kissed, even if he wasn't the first one to fuck my ass or my mouth. He was also the first guy I ever came with, and it was it was nice to know I could feel that. I moved off the floor and into bed with him, and that worked for the two months it took Turtle and me to find a place that we could afford while we saved up to follow Johnny out to L.A.

"Yeah, Kelly, he was a good guy."

She gives me a long look then nods. There's a lot I don't say to her, Turtle and Johnny. That doesn't stop them from knowing.

It's nice not to have to.

~*~*~

Entry 55

Client is in his thirties and married with kids. And he's so gay that it's a shock to me that he's not doing drag shows in WeHo. Seriously, he's gayer than Ari's assistant Lloyd, and fuck that is really, really gay. I honestly don't know how his wife hasn't picked up on it, but hell, maybe he fakes it at home. If he does, he deserves an Oscar.

He's not a complete stereotype, though, because he tops me pretty well. He's typical of clients in that it's all about what he wants, meeting his needs and his fantasies. And what the client wants is a man. He needs to fuck something with a dick, because that's who he really is behind the minivan, marriage, and suburban life. He smacks my ass and tells me what a great piece of ass I am. He thanks me for the good time that he's paid for, and then he goes back home to his wife.

Hey, that's what I'm here for.

~*~*~

[Continue to Entry 56-58](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/249647.html)


	4. Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This inspired by Belle Du Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the [](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/profile)[entourage_fest](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/).

**Title:** Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy  
**Entries:** 56-58 of 151  
**Status:** Complete  
**Fandom:** Entourage  
**Word Count:**~5,800  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Entourage or anyone who has ever appeared on it.  
**Pairing:** Vince/Eric, Vince/Pretty much everyone else except Turtle, Johnny, and the Golds (seriously)  
**Rating:** NC-17 for lots and lots of sex  
**Warnings:** AU, prostitution, mentions of past childhood physical abuse, BDSM, gay sex, straight sex, group sex, rape fantasy, fisting, wax play, a foot fetishist, mentions of daddy-kink, extremely brief mention of watersports. _If any of the particular warnings are squicks for you, send me a private message and I'll tell you which entry to avoid!_  
**Betas and helpers:** [](https://guest-age.livejournal.com/profile)[**guest_age**](https://guest-age.livejournal.com/), [](https://justabi.livejournal.com/profile)[**justabi**](https://justabi.livejournal.com/), [](https://allyndra.livejournal.com/profile)[**allyndra**](https://allyndra.livejournal.com/), [](https://ariadne83.livejournal.com/profile)[**ariadne83**](https://ariadne83.livejournal.com/), [](https://pesha.livejournal.com/profile)[**pesha**](https://pesha.livejournal.com/) and [](https://deepad.livejournal.com/profile)[**deepad**](https://deepad.livejournal.com/) were all completely indispensable. Thank you so much.  
**Authors Notes:** This inspired by Belle Du Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the [](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/profile)[**entourage_fest**](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/).

**Summary:** Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.

[Entry 1-20](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/247618.html)   
[Entry 21-40](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/248082.html)   
[Entry 41-55](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/248741.html)

Entry 56

Ari's got me meeting the client in a bar on Saturday night. It's not my favorite way to conduct business. It's awkward and back when I was new at this, I approached the wrong person more than once. I got hit twice and laughed at once before I really learned how to read people.

"Younger, FOB, he'll be wearing a red shirt and waiting for you at the bar at the Peninsula. He's got a room there."  
  
FOB—fresh off the boat. Most natives think of anyone from east of L.A. county who've been in town less than five years as an FOB. Ari's cut off is more than ten years, so technically, I'm still FOB.

"He ask for anything special?"

"You got requested special, you kinky bitch. That's not special enough?"

"Ari."

"Look, there's nothing special here. You don't have to shoot ping pong balls out of your ass or do cartwheels on the guy's dick. He's a New England closet case and his sister got him a, _Welcome to real civilization,_ present. All you have to do is show up, look pretty, and fuck like a stevedore. Guy's probably one of those uptight, control-freak, Connecticut tops, so you don't even have to worry about getting hard. The sister paid up for the whole night, so you've got lots of time to do your job, handsome."

"When?"

"Eight-thirty. Wear green. The wife says it makes your eyes pop."

Yeah. Sure she does.

"Tonight's easy, though. Mrs. Grey's husband found out about you and Jay orally shucking her bearded clam and gave himself a coronary. His blood pressure's so fucking high the son of a bitch had to retire early, so she's cancelled for the next two weeks. I've got you an afternoon delight tomorrow."

"So nothing tonight?"

"Nope. Not unless Alan Grey gets his blood pressure back to normal in the next eight hours and checks himself out of Cedars-Sinai."

"Tomrrow's fine. Hey, Ari, do I need change my phone number?" I've had a couple husbands and more than a few wives track my number down over the years. It's always ugly.

"Not this time."

~*~*~

Entry 57

The afternoon client, [Phil](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=060816_bruno.jpg), turns out to be my ED client's dad, which is so goddamn creepy. There're pictures of the two of them with Phil's late wife all over the house.

It's just…ugh. Apparently, Nicky's the one who recommended me. Miracle worker, is what Phil tells me he said. That is so much creepier than the guy who wanted me to put him in a diaper that time.

He wants it pretty straight forward, just a blowjob (me blowing him) and then a fuck (him fucking me). And that's fine. But fuck, I've made his kid come with two of my fingers in his ass. It's just weird.

I lie face down on his bed, pant and moan like I want to be there, and try not to think about the way he and his son both curse the same.

~*~*~*~

Entry 58

I can usually tell which patron is my client as soon as I enter the room when I have a job like this. Even when it's a crowded bar or restaurant, I can still tell.

The women fidget. Almost always they'll be fondling drinks with long stems and looking expectantly towards the door, often in groups of two or three—making sure I am what I say I am (late twenties, peak physical condition, attractive and, most importantly, not a serial killer).

Men, on the other hand, are always alone. I'd say that something like two-thirds of my male clients are married, hell maybe closer to seventy-five percent, so they're sneaking. Even the ones that aren't married don't want anyone to know they're doing this. Paying for sex is bad enough. Paying for a boy is worse. And doing it if you've got a wife, kids, or a job as the CEO of a company that regularly appears in Forbes isn't something you want to broadcast.

But they definitely broadcast something. Usually it's need—for something in particular or just for sex in general, doesn't matter. They're in need and that's the kind of thing you can scent from a hundred feet away if you're looking for it.

This one's not going to be vibing need though. He's going to be embarrassed, ashamed. He'll have hunched shoulders, and probably be ducked low over his drink. Even if I hadn't known to look for the red shirt, I'd have seen him.

I spot him less than a foot inside the door. He's at the bar and he's staring down into a glass of beer like he wants to crawl inside and never come out. His face is shadowed but the curve of back is definitely embarrassment. It's not a good look on him because from what I can see, he's about my age and not that bad looking.

I move to stand behind him and lay a hand on his back, sliding it across to his shoulder. "Excuse me, I'm—" I am about to say Chase, but he blinks and turns his face into the light to look at me. My voice dies in my throat because suddenly I can see his face.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

"Jesus fuck, Vince? Vince Chase, is that you?"

I pull my hand back and force out a laugh, smiling as best as I can through the shock.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_, this is so many kinds of bad I can't even stand it because Jesus, it's not just a client. I could deal if it were anyone on earth in this bar, wearing a red shirt and waiting for me but not him. Nearly fifteen years too fucking late, it's E. _My_ E.

I have kept my cool while grown men put on riding gear and pretended to be a horse and I totally dispassionately have watched women fist themselves. I am an expert at keeping my level fucking head. I am.

My voice cracks when I speak anyway.

"Long time, no see, E."

"Too fucking long," E says, moving off the barstool and into hugging me.

Despite myself, I sink into the hug. My hands flatten themselves against his back so I can feel his heat and the muscles beneath the silk. Only years of faking it keep me from actually moaning at how much better reality is than my memories.

He smells different than I remember. He used to smell like VO5 shampoo-and-conditioner-in-one and discount detergent-and-softener and now he smells like Calvin Klein aftershave and organic soap. I pull back and try to get all the new information to mesh together.

It's not really working and out of the corner of my eye, I'm scanning the bar for the real client. The one I'm supposed to fuck. Because it can't be him. It can't be. E wouldn't ever buy it. He's not that kind of guy.

Then again, it's been years. What the fuck do I know about him anymore? Nothing. I don't know anything, so I need to just let go and fucking stop this. But I can't. It's been too Goddamn long, and I can't.

E is grinning at me so wide it looks like his face could break in two. He rubs my upper arm and asks, "What are you doing here?"

"I was supposed to meet someone here for work," I say, and that's one hundred and ten percent true. "What about you? It's been, what, ten years?" Closer to fifteen. But who's counting? Not me. Not every fucking day since he left. Nope. "I thought you were in Boston."

"Yeah." E seems to finally remember who he is and where we are and lets go of me. "No, I haven't been in Boston since I finished college. I just got moved out here for work. I was back in New York before this. Crazy, right?"

Small fucking world. I am trying so fucking hard not to be bitter right now. I am. "Yeah. Nuts."

"Ya know, I called Rita when I first moved back. She didn't have a number for you."

I have never hated my mother more. Never. Not when she took my old man back. Not when she protected him from social services after he broke my arm. Not when she let him kick me out. Not when she called me and Jimmy fags when I came to pick up the last of my stuff before Turtle and I left for L.A.

I don't know what the fuck she thought she was doing. Punishing me? Protecting me? I don't care. I smile at E through anger, hurt, and a heavy feeling of time fucking _wasted_ that I can't get back.

"I'll make sure you have my number this time."

"Great. Hey, I'm, uh—" E swallows. "I'm supposed to be meeting someone here myself. A friend of mine arranged a blind date type thing for me that there's no possible way I can take. I was only here to cancel in person because she won't give me the fucking number but…" He shrugs and grins at me while my fantasy of this being a fluke encounter withers and dies. "Fuck ‘em. Jesus, Vince I haven't seen you in ages. How the fuck are you?"

"Busy," I say, which is true. I have been busy. I have clients five days a week, sometimes more.

"Me too," he calls back. A moment of self-consciousness flits across his face and he glances nervously at the door. Looking for Chase and hoping that he won't come.

"You know, I can't hear shit down here. Wanna go somewhere we can talk?"

"Sure. You want to get a drink first?" E asks, leaning in to talk to me. His hand rests on my arm and his eyes are dark. I know that look. I make my fucking living off that fucking look, Goddamn it.

Goddamn it, I wish I were fourteen. Why the hell couldn't this have been my life before E's family moved to Boston? I would've given anything to have this as a kid, anything to have it any other way.

I order a scotch, then make it a double. I down the first one fast, which makes E's eyebrows shoot up his forehead, but I take the second one in my hand and nod towards the exit of the bar into the lobby and move the arm he's holding in that direction. It's so easy. I hate how easy it is to lead him like he's one of hundreds of clients.

The change of light from the bar to the lobby isn't enough to make me squint, but it is enough to for me to see E clearly.

He's only a few inches taller than he was when we were fourteen, about half a foot shorter than me, but he's turned out like he belongs in L.A. It's clear his shirt's designer now that we're in the light. Everything he's wearing is worth more than our parents made in a year growing up. His hair's cut short and is just a little bit spiked in the front. He's nervous, I can read it in his face, but his shoulders have a set to them I recognize—he's got power. Over what, doing what, I don't know. But whatever it is, he's good at it and he's in charge.

"You're doing well for yourself," I say, and it sounds forced to me. But all I can think about is how good he looks and how to get him to talk out here in the quiet where I can hear him. I want to remember his voice.

"You don't know the half of it," he laughs and God. Oh, fucking God. He's still got Queens in his voice, thicker than my accent ever was even before I started working to stop it. "My boss's got me heading up a branch out here for couple years—see if I can't pull my own weight. What about you? You still acting?"

I swallow the second scotch that burns through the ache in my throat. E wanted me to be an actor. He said I was too pretty for sports, that I could be a star. I cannot fucking bear to see disappointment on his face, not now that I'm just getting reacquainted with it. So I shrug and make another desperate half-truth. "I do a lot of things."

"Tell me about it." He's serious. He's so fucking serious his eyes are boring a fucking hole in me. But I can't answer that. I can't. Instead, I do what I've wanted to do since I was about twelve, and reach for Eric's waist.

"We can talk upstairs."

He follows me to the elevator and that's surreal. I used to follow him. But I tug gently on his belt and E shakes his head and follows me anyway.

"What floor?"

"Top."

The penthouse. Whatever branch E's running, it's important. I hit the button at the top of the row labeled P and E leans against the wall.

"This is not the way tonight was supposed to go," he says with a sigh.

"Yeah?" I ask, moving to stand in front of him. We have about twenty stories left. "How was it supposed to go?"

"I don't know, Vince. Different. It was supposed to go different. I didn't expect to see you here. I mean, I haven't seen you since we were kids. It's all kind of—" He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up patchy. "I don't know. Weird."

"Funny how things work out."

"Yeah. Funny. Vince, listen."

I tilt my head to the side and wait. He says nothing for three floors.

"I'm listening."

"Yeah."

"It's just me, E."

"Yeah. I know it's you. I just…fuck, Vince, you grew up."

"So did you."

"I just didn't think you would."

"I was supposed to stay fourteen forever?"

"Yeah." He rubs his forehead with the knuckles of the last three fingers on his right hand. "In my head, you did. You know, I think about you and we're still getting high in Turtle's mom's house and your shoes have holes in them."

"I got new shoes."

"Yeah. I know. I know, Vince. It's just…"

I reach out and put my hand on the side of his neck. We're five floors from the top. He tenses and leans into my touch at the same time. E's got a vibe that reminds me of a frightened bird—not on the attack like a wounded dog or anything, but not sure he wants to land, to commit to what's coming next. Calm and persistent, that's what tends to work with those. So I don't let go and he uncoils.

"Trust me, E."

"Trust you to what?"

"Just trust me."

"Vince—"

"Trust me," I say again.

His eyes are the same. Everything else is slightly different—he's got more freckles, shorter hair, a taller body, better clothes. But his eyes are the same. They're clear blue and I can see myself in them when he looks at me.

Kissing him isn't really a choice. It's the only thing I can do with him looking at me that way. I stroke my tongue into his mouth it's like a switch gets flipped inside E. His hands grab my waist and pull me into him so that we're pressed together with no space between. I plant hand on the elevator wall for balance as he tugs down on the back of my head. He tastes like the beer he was drinking and something else, something that's just his taste. It's good and I moan, pushing closer, deeper.

The door dings and opens into a hallway with one door that doesn't have a number on it. The doors almost close on us again before we break apart. E brushes past me, hits the open button and leads me out into the hallway. We don't speak as he opens the door with his key and we go inside.

The penthouse is larger than my apartment. There's a living room, a kitchen off to the side, a bathroom through another door, and beyond that is the bedroom.

With most people, I would comment on a room like this, something praising and appreciative. E seems almost embarrassed by the place, like he's ashamed that he has enough money to stay in a place like this. So instead, I reach out to him again and take his hand.

It's so simple, so fucking juvenile. Holding hands—what am I, four? But nothing's ever felt like it feels to hold E's hand. I thread my fingers with his and lead him into the bedroom.

The bed is a California king, bigger than my bed at home. E won't look at it, or me, choosing instead to fix his gaze on the open suitcase at in a corner of the room near one of the nightstands. I drop down onto the bed, tugging him down over me.

I lay back and look up at him. His face is flushed, his lips are still wet, and he looks a little dazed. With his free hand, he reaches down and runs his fingertips down the side of my face.

"Jesus, Vince," he chokes, ducking his head against my neck.

Then he's kissing the skin there. He sucks on my pulse. He pulls at my shirt and the buttons give easily so his lips can reach my collarbone. He buries his nose against my shoulder and mouths my skin, and I'm tugging at his shirt when I hear it.

"I've missed you. I didn't even fucking know how much."

I don't know why that makes it real. But it does. I crash down from Lalaland into the real fucking world where we shouldn't be doing this. It's been almost fifteen years. Fifteen. I don't know him anymore. He doesn't know me. He doesn't know what I do. Where I've been. Who I've become since his mom took him away. I don't think he deserves to see that. Not when he remembers me as being better.

He's still kissing my neck and working his way back up towards my mouth while I panic. Either he doesn't notice, or he went into sexual autopilot (which is more likely).

I roll over, taking E with me so that I'm on top. I kiss the underside of his jaw a few times to get his attention, then say "Wait here, okay? I've gotta use the john."

He nods and I climb off him. I can feel his eyes on me as I pad a cross the room until I shut the door behind me with a quiet click.

I flick on the light and stare at myself in the mirror. Nothing new there. With kiss-bruised lips and jaded eyes, I look exactly like what I am—rent boy, escort, prostitute, whore. Doesn't usually matter what you call it. It's a job. It's just a job. It's a job I usually really like. A job I'm actually proud of a lot of the time.

But that's E out there. Oldest friend, only person to ever love me unconditionally, too-much-fucking-history, E. I'm just not a good enough actor for this.

What the hell can I go out there and say anyway? _Sorry E, I really want to fuck you, but a friend of yours is paying me because I'm a whore. Thought you should know before I sit on your cock. Heads up._

Yeah. It's been more than ten years since I last spoke to him. If I say that, it'll be another thirty before I speak to him again. Which, all things considered, wouldn't be that unreasonable on his part. My mother can barely talk to me and my brother ignores it all together, so why would E's reaction be any different?

The fact is, I can't risk it. Not won't. Can't. Can fucking not. I can't let him walk out of my life again, not over what I do, not over anything. Not when he's right on the other side of that door, panting for it like I've been wanting since I hit puberty.

"Get it the fuck together, Chase," I hiss at my reflection. And Chase, the role I've perfected in hotel rooms not nearly as nice as this one over the years, grins back at me, sure and sexy. He's not the right person to be in this moment, but he's all I can reach for right now. I wash my hands with cold water just to rinse the sweat that's been building on my palms for the last hour, and open the door.

E's sitting on the bed in his boxers and his dress shirt. It's unbuttoned just enough that I can see his undershirt, white against the dark red and somehow vulnerable—like he started getting undressed and then decided it might not be a good idea, and is waiting for me to decide. My throat's dry as I look at him. I find a smile somewhere.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Just had to catch my breath."

He nods at me and rubs the back of his neck again. He never used to do that as a kid, and it makes me wonder. But I can see his feet and his calves and I want to unfold him and get him out of his boxers. I want to feel his hands and taste the skin hidden by that red silk and white cotton.

"Okay."

It's the perfect moment to say something. Anything that could get this to stop would be good here from the true ("wait, you should know first I'm a hooker"), to the reasonable ("let's talk first, it's been a long time"), to flat out lies ("we can't—I'm HIV+."), but he's beautiful and I'm a fucking idiot, so instead of saying anything to him, I start on the buttons of my shirt.

"This is crazy, Vince," he says, but he's watching my hands.

I say nothing. Apparently, my mouth doesn't do words anymore. I undo my wrists first - four buttons on each sleeve, and then I start at my collar.

"It is," E says, shaking his head as he rises up on his knees and moves toward me. He catches the bottom of my shirt and starts on the buttons himself. He pops them open too rough, no patience or elegance. I can feel the shirt tear, and I don't give a rat's ass. "It's fucking insane, Vince. I'm insane."

His hands meet mine about two-thirds down my shirt and he pushes it off my shoulders roughly before pulling me down over him. His tongue pushes into my mouth and I groan because it's the only way I know how to react to finally getting what I've fucking always wanted. He tugs my shirt off my arms even as he pushes his upper body up off the bed to kiss me harder. I can tell from the way he's kissing me that he's a top, and that's fine with me. More than.

I roll us so that once again, he's above me and that works better for him. I watch him undo the cuffs of his own shirt before tugging it off over his head. He's straddling me in nothing but his boxers and undershirt now, and it's better than my fantasies. My fantasies never got the weight of him right, the way his body presses mine down into the bed. His bare feet brush against my slacks.

His hands slide down my arms to my wrists and I feel anchored. Holding my hands against my sides like that isn't a question, I don't give permission and for a moment, I'm reminded of Billy. But this is better because E's hands fit around my bones like they were made to go there, and they're gentle. They're warm, strong, and heavy without being violent. They just connect and it hits me that I could probably come from just this if E kept touching me for long enough.

"You got so fucking beautiful, Vince. How'd that happen? Where the fuck was I?"

"You're here now," I mumble, my lips following his as best they can. I don't want him to stop kissing me to talk. "I'm here now, E. We're here."

"Too fucking long."

My throat aches and my eyes sting. I rub the side of E's face with my nose. "I know."

"It's been too fucking long, Vince."

"I know. So you should kiss me again—make up for that time we didn't when we were in high school."

E smiles down at me, a little sad. "Which time?"

"Every time."

I lose myself in kissing him. It isn't something that is usually a big deal for me—kissing. I like it, but it's not like this, where thought fades and I can lose myself in the act. Sex is like that. If my partner is good and he or she knows what they're doing. But not kissing. Yet I'm drowning in kissing him—getting him out of his boxers isn't even priority anymore. All I care about is memorizing the feel of his tongue and the alignment of his teeth.

There's a buzzing from the side of my leg. It makes E break away and blink at me with dark blue eyes. And then 50 Cent's voice erupts from the speaker of my cell phone, his voice playing in that weird slightly-off way that all MP3 ring tones have and I grope for it, even as E descends on me again.

_No Cadillac, no perms, you can't see that I'm a motherfucking P-I-M-_

I flip it open with clumsy fingers. "'Lo?"

"Chase, baby, how's it hanging?"

This is what I give a chunk out of my commissions for, I remind myself. I actually am supposed to want him to do this I try to remind myself as E's lips attack the side of my neck on their way down. But I can't think.

"Chase?"

"I'm, uh—" E's teeth scrape over my nipple and a moan explodes out of my throat, ruining whatever I was going to say. What I need to say. Which is that I'm gold. That's the code. How's it hanging? I'm gold.

I take a deep breath and E's tongue joins the party. I choke on my words and it comes out in an incoherent moan.

"He there?"

E's moved down, his tongue in my navel, his hands undoing my belt. Then the belt's gone and my pants are unzipped, and his mouth is on my cock. It all happens so fast I can't even process and I shout into the phone something that sounds a lot like a yes, but might be something totally different. I have no way to know.

"Uh-huh. And how are you hanging?"

"G-golden," I manage though the word ends on a practically pornographic moan. "Nugh, I, fuck, fucking fuck—I gotta go."

I can hear Ari laughing as I snap the phone shut and throw it across the room. It lands with a soft thump on the thick carpet, and now both my hands are free to brace on the bed and push myself up so I can watch E suck me.

His red hair looks dark brown in the low light, and he's looking up at me with big eyes. His lips are stretched wide and he keeps making these filthy slurping noises that actually hurt me to hear because I've made sounds like that before—fake, manufactured noises that wish they could sound like E does. I fall back on to one elbow and reach out to touch the side of his mouth, and my thumb slides in.

He closes his eyes like he wants it. Like he loves it. Like he's made for it and Jesus, what would the guys we grew up with say?

Who fucking cares? I don't. Because my fucking dick and my fucking thumb are inside E right this second. They're inside of him, which is just unreal. And kind of unfair. I pull my hand free, grab him by his undershirt, and tug. He lifts off me slowly, like he doesn't want to stop—and maybe he doesn't, which would be fucking amazing. But then he's face to face with me again.

"Fuck me."

His eyes go wide and he swallows audibly.

"Vince—"

"I want you to fuck me, E," I say. It's easy to say because of practice, and it feels good to say because it's true. I want E to fuck me like I know he can, like I've thought about time after time when the client I'm with isn't enough or I'm alone in my apartment, dick in one hand, vibrator in the other.

"You have no idea how you sound."

Of course I do. I know exactly how I sound. "Like I want you inside me. Fucking fuck me, E. I want you to fuck me. Please."

"Vince—" he tries again.

I sit up and kick out of my pants, grabbing the lube and one of the condoms I keep in my pockets before discarding them completely, and my boxers go with them. I'm naked and he notices. I lay back, my head finally getting all the way up to the pillows, and I pull out a move that's an oldie but a goody when I spread my legs and bend my knees. "Now, E. I want you to fuck me now."

E looks nervous again. He hasn't for a while but now he does again, and I wonder what the hell he's been doing for the last decade plus that he can give head like that, but the idea of fucking me makes him twitchy.

"It's easy, E."

"You've done this before."

"Yeah. And you've sucked cock before. Both are valuable skill sets, E. So," I sit up a bit and grab him by the front of that white shirt and pull him forward. "You should fuck me already."

"I'm—Vince I'm not—"

The next word out of his mouth better not be "gay." Because I can tell from the way he's looking at me that's bullshit and E's never been the kind to lie to himself. And I can't let him. But he slides his hands over my chest and tries again.

"I haven't—Vince I've done this maybe twice. And not for a long time." His face flushes the same red as his shirt and the answer's in his eyes. "Years."

Right. Okay. This I can work with. This is honest and not wholly unexpected, and this I can more than handle.

"It's all good, E. I got this." I take the hand that's on my chest and kiss the fingers before putting it back against my skin.

I keep my eyes on E as I reach out and retrieve the lube from the duvet. I pop off the top of the tube and it slides out wet and slippery onto my fingers. I smile at E as I push two wet fingers into myself and groan.

I can hear E's breath catch. I can feel his eyes on my ass and the slick slide of my fingers inside me. I manage to lift my head enough to see his face as I slide a third finger inside, more for show than anything else, and he's biting his lower lip so hard it's a wonder it's not bleeding.

I pull my fingers out of me and drop them onto the blanket. His eyes are locked on them and that's good. The way his lip has teeth marks in it is good, too. With my clean hand, I hold out the condom and a second packet of lube.  
  
"I think you can fuck me now."

This part, E's done before, thank God. He got no issues getting out of his boxers and undershirt. He's deft with the condom and he knows what to do with the lube—sorta. But when he leans over me, he seems a little confused.

"Are you sure this is how— "

I stop him mid-sentence. His pride doesn't deserve to have to finish that.

"How about you just lie back and I'll drive?"

"You even got a license?"

"Not for a car."

"That's fucking typical, Vince," he says, but he's smiling as he says it, and he moves to lie down on his back next to me. "Just don't wreck me."

He says it as a joke but he's not kidding, and I wish I could promise him that. But all I can do is move over him and kiss him, hard and deep, as I sink slow and smooth onto his cock. I moan into his mouth as he slides into me, and he makes a broken noise in the back of his throat and his whole body jerks.

He doesn't have the longest or the thickest dick I've ever had inside me, but he's long enough for me to feel it deep inside and thick enough for it to burn just enough to be really good. I brace my knees on the mattress and my hands on the bed and move—up then down, slow at first, but when I find my prostate with E's dick, I speed up and squeeze inside.

E chokes out my name and I tip my head down to kiss him. It feels like I'm melting into him, my body rolling like one of those rhythmic wave machines executives keep on their desks in their offices. It's natural and fluid and easy. My body fits over his and I don't have to twist or bend myself uncomfortably to take him deep and good.

One of his hands rests on my hip, urging me on. "Faster. Harder. More, Vince, come on more. I've wanted you so fucking long, Vince, please more."

I come on his chest and it's satisfying because fuck, yes, it's a blinding orgasm—the spasming, bucking, rocking, ride-his-dick-like-I-stole-it kind I hardly ever have even when I'm trying for it—but there's also something so fucking hot about seeing myself on him like that.  
  
I fall forward and he takes advantage of the moment and rolls us until he's on top. Completely out of my hands and my control, he fucks me, and I get a taste of what it could be like next time, if there is a next time. Sweating and panting, it's the kind of fuck that could shake my teeth lose. It moves the whole bed and turns me inside out.

His left hand gropes for my right as he loses his rhythm. He calls my name when he comes, his face buried in the side of my neck, his fingers laced with mine, and squeezing tight.

When he can move again, he pulls out of me, gets rid of the condom, and thumps down half next to, half on top of, me. His left hand hasn't let mine go yet and his right settles itself on my chest, over my heart.

~*~*~

[Continue to Entry 59-70](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/250583.html)


	5. Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This inspired by Belle Du Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the [](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/profile)[entourage_fest](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/).

**Title:** Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy  
**Entries:** 59-70 of 151  
**Status:** Complete  
**Fandom:** Entourage  
**Word Count:**~6,300  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Entourage or anyone who has ever appeared on it.  
**Pairing:** Vince/Eric, Vince/Pretty much everyone else except Turtle, Johnny, and the Golds (seriously)  
**Rating:** NC-17 for lots and lots of sex  
**Warnings:** AU, prostitution, mentions of past childhood physical abuse, BDSM, gay sex, straight sex, group sex, rape fantasy, fisting, wax play, a foot fetishist, mentions of daddy-kink, extremely brief mention of watersports. _If any of the particular warnings are squicks for you, send me a private message and I'll tell you which entry to avoid!_  
**Betas and helpers:** [](https://guest-age.livejournal.com/profile)[**guest_age**](https://guest-age.livejournal.com/), [](https://justabi.livejournal.com/profile)[**justabi**](https://justabi.livejournal.com/), [](https://allyndra.livejournal.com/profile)[**allyndra**](https://allyndra.livejournal.com/), [](https://ariadne83.livejournal.com/profile)[**ariadne83**](https://ariadne83.livejournal.com/), [](https://pesha.livejournal.com/profile)[**pesha**](https://pesha.livejournal.com/) and [](https://deepad.livejournal.com/profile)[**deepad**](https://deepad.livejournal.com/) were all completely indispensable. Thank you so much.  
**Authors Notes:** This inspired by Belle Du Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the [](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/profile)[**entourage_fest**](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/).

**Summary:** Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.

[Entry 1-20](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/247618.html)   
[Entry 21-40](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/248082.html)   
[Entry 41-55](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/248741.html)   
[Entry 56-58](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/249647.html)

Entry 59

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why did I do that? How stupid am I? How? And why didn't I say something when he got my phone number?

I should've said something when E tugged me down and kissed me before I left. There were lots of chances.

I don't know. I just shut everything out for the rest of the day on Sunday and now there's fucking five missed calls on my phone since I turned it off in the wake of the whole Thing With E. One's Johnny, one's Ari, one's Billy calling from Canada, and two are E.

"This is completely un-cool of me 'cause you just left like an hour ago, but I wanted to know if you're doing anything Tuesday night. I'd love to see you. Give me a call." *beep*

"Sorry for calling again so soon. I just wanted to, fuck, Vince, I don't know. It's good to have your phone number, I guess. Fuck, I sound like an idiot. I don't know why I called. Do me a favor and delete this message. It never happened. Hope to see you Tuesday." *beep*

It sounds like he wants a date. A real date where at the end of it, sex is not guaranteed. I don't actually remember doing this before. And I may be in a panic. It's possible.

I call Turtle and it all kind of explodes out of me in a rush that's painfully embarrassing and makes me feel like a twelve-year-old girl. But he listens to more details than anyone should have to and when I'm done, he asks, "You're sure it's E from the neighborhood? Our E?"

"Fucking, Jesus, Turtle. Of course I'm sure."

"Well, I don't know, man. It's been a long time. It coulda just looked like him."

"It was him."

"So are you going to bring him around? I haven't seen him since the funeral."

"I don't know." E doesn't even know Turtle is out here with me. E doesn't know a lot of things. I have no idea what he'd think or want. Not on anything. "All I know is he wants to see me again and he wants it to be tomorrow."

"Damn, Vin, you got some fucking life, you know that?"

"Turtle."

"What? You wanna go be a fairy, there's worse people you could do it with than E. Better than that creepy Scarsdale fuck Walsh."

That's the start of an old argument and I let it drop. "So, Tuesday."

"Do what you want, Vince. I don't know why you even gotta ask me this."

He's got a point. I say good-bye and call E. I get his voice mail and tell him that Monday is good and I'll meet him at Koi. I hang up before I have the chance to say anything too stupid.

~*~*~

Entry 60

It starts off as just friends catching up. Really. I tell him about my life minus the hooking and he tells me where he's been for the last few years.

He says, in the humblest way possible, that he busted his ass in high school without me, Turtle, and Dom around to distract him. I always knew E was smart, but he got himself into Boston University on his own merit. His grades and maybe his fastball paid his way, and he lived at home so he could afford it, and then his college transcripts and GREs got him into the MBA program at Colombia. From there, apparently his ex-girlfriend-turned-best-friend introduced him to his boss, and he just kind of started to rise.

None of this is said to brag, even though it's fucking impressive. Thing is, there's more to it. He keeps it in small terms, but it's big. As soon as I can, I'm Googling him, because there's something he's not telling me.

I know. Fucking hypocrite much?

I'm an even bigger fucking hypocrite because I just let him talk. I let him talk about how things are with his friend Sloan and his mom back in Boston, who never really recovered after his dad died, and his grandparents, and life in general. I enjoy it and offer nothing more than what Turtle is up to with Saigon in return.

But the whole time we're talking, our legs touch under the table. Our hands brush when we reach for the sake or the wasabi. It's not really like anything I've ever done before, beating around the bush like this, and it gets hot fast. I brush the side of my hand against him and ask him if maybe it's getting a little late and we should go. He doesn't need to think twice, hailing for the check.

He asked me, he says when it arrives, so he's paying. That's just how it works, and he doesn't let me argue with him. It's kind of hot actually.

He's got a blue Bentley four-door that screams money, but has a practical edge, that's waiting for us when we step outside. The valet tosses him the keys and he looks so good in the driver's seat that I can't actually wait for us to pull all the way out of the parking lot.

I kiss him, the gear shift digging into my hip, and E pulls the car over. He pushes his chair back as I unhook my seatbelt and I end up straddling him, my head hitting the roof as I grind down into him. It's over fast, both of us coming in our pants like teenagers, and I slide carefully off him and into the passenger seat.

"Come home with me," E says, reaching over and sliding a hand behind the back of my neck.

"I've got work tomorrow."

"So do I, probably earlier than you. Come home with me, Vince."

I look over at him skeptically. I don't know if I can go again, if I _should_ go again with a client booked for tomorrow. But he squeezes my neck gently.

"I just want to go to sleep with you, Vince. No more sex, no pressure."

Bullshit. That's a huge amount of pressure. It's the worst kind of pressure 'cause there's feelings involved. But his fingers are massaging knots away and I can't say no.

[Ken](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=0053.jpg), the night receptionist at the Peninsula, gives me a look as I walk in with E. He knows me, he knows what I do, and he knows I was here with E last night. He gives me this smirk and a knowing nod, and I really want to hit him. I move a little closer to E and look straight ahead instead.

I know I'm fucked when E invites me into the shower with him and that's all we do. Shower. It's intimacy and it's choking me. But I can't leave. His hands glide over my skin slicked with soap but it's not sexual. It's just…nice. I feel my eyes sting but I figure its just shampoo in my eyes.

I don't sleep. I lie awake with his arm around me because I'm pretty sure that if I do fall asleep, I'm going to wake up and this will be gone.

I'm up and out before he is. I leave a note, a lie about work. But I close it with asking him to call me. And a stupid hand-drawn heart.

I'm just so screwed.

~*~*~

Entry 61

Client is in her mid-twenties, blonde, and talkative with a decent rack. She's not my type where women are concerned, but she's not even close to my usual client base. She's too young, too pretty, and too confident. She calls to nail down the specifics with me personally and gives me the address to her condo. It's nice, but then that's not too surprising. She can afford me.

"Perfect," she says when she opens the door. "I'm [Kristen](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=0135.jpg) and you're fucking perfect." She hands me an envelope her name written on it in thick masculine letters and points me back to her bedroom.

"I want you in our bed," she says. "I bought this bed with Richard," she says and she's so clearly not talking to me, not really. She's talking to herself, she just needs someone to listen so that she doesn't come off as crazy. "This cute little boutique in West Hollywood. Fucker wouldn't let me out into the suburbs with him. Too pedestrian," she mutters as she shimmies out of her work out jeans and pulls off her top. "Pedestrian. Lying sack of shit."

Okay, then.

She pushes me back into her pillows before climbing on the bed with me. She tells me to fuck her, "Like you mean it," she hisses, kicking off her panties and yeah, I can do that.

She stares up at me while I fuck her in a simple missionary style like she's trying to look through me at something else. It's a little uncomfortable. I reach out to touch her face as I'm rocking into her, trying to help, and she smacks my hand away.

"Stop it," she snaps. "Don't fucking make love to me, okay? Just fuck me. You're not my boyfriend." She tips her head back and laughs. "My fucking boyfriend. Fucking Richard."

"Do you want to punish him?" I can do punishment. I'm good at punishment. I would rather have her punish me for him than listen to her keep fucking ranting while I try to give her what she claims to want.

"I am punishing him," she says as she hitches her legs around my waist. "Fuck me harder and punish him more."

I stop talking and fuck her harder. I fuck her so hard it hurts my back a little, and I drag out every sick and dirty fantasy I've ever had to keep the energy up because this feel really off and just kind of wrong.

She keeps talking while I fuck her, about Richard and his wife and how she's such an idiot, such a Goddamn idiot. She cries when she comes, tears rolling down her face and her fingernails scraping down my back.

I hope to God she didn't leave marks and I'm hit by a wave of startling guilt. It kills any hope of orgasm I might have had because all I can think is, "I don't want E to see."

"I can't just leave," she says when it's over and I'm getting dressed. "I can't. I can't afford to finish my psych residency if I leave him. And it's not like he knows I know. I just don't know what I'm supposed to do."

I shrug at her. "Don't leave."

"You say that like it's a real option," she says, but I can see in her face that she's already considered it. She just wants someone else to say it out loud. "He's _married_."

"You've got what, a year left before you're a doctor?"

"Two."

"Okay two. So don't leave for two years."

She looks at me with watery eyes. "I don't know if I can live with that."

"It's only a couple years. You can live with almost anything for a couple years. Trust me."

She tilts her head to the side and gives me the weirdest look. Then she smiles. "I would love to get you in for a session, Chase. I bet off the clock you're fascinating."

Off the clock I'm a fucking mess and I don't really like psychology. So I smile and I lie and I go home with Richard's money. I take two showers, call E, and can't get away from feeling guilty.

~*~*~

Entry 62

I'd like to point out that I haven't really dated…ever. I sort of missed that stage back when I was a teenager. I had girlfriends but there was no actual dating. What was the point wasting your time going out when you had someone to fuck or fuck you?

So it's weird—this thing with E. Cause we're fucking dating. He makes a point to take his lunch off at least three times a week and we meet up. Most of the time, it's not for a quickie. We have a burger, a hot dog, or some pizza and beer and it's just easy. It's like being a kid again but with the added bonus of getting to kiss him.

We end up at a place that does wings and has baseball and I come to find out he's turned into a fucking Red Socks fan somewhere along the line. It's fucking blasphemy and we fight over teams for most of his lunch hour.

"You leave for four years and you turn into a traitor?"

"My grandfather had season tickets. He bought like fifty years worth back in the sixties."

"And that's an excuse?"

"Just because the Yankees can't get back to the World Series doesn't mean you have to take it out on me."

There's a Red Sox game on Saturday and I go to his hotel to watch it though, lying on my stomach beside him on his bed. I heckle them through the whole game and only overplay my disappointment a little when they win.

~*~*~

Entry 63

Coffee with E in thirty. I don't really get why we keep going out when we could just stay in, especially on my day off. It tends to stretch into the whole day wandering around downtown L.A., but hey. Whatever. He seems to like it so I can't complain too much.

~*~*~

Entry 64

Client is a couple. The woman's got a fantasy about being with two men at once. She's really into her husband but it's been a thing for her since before they got married, so I'm his fifth anniversary present to her.

She wants me to suck him while she watches (no problem, I happen to suck a mean cock), kiss him (he's a little skittish about that, even while his wife feels him up and tells him how much she wants to fuck him, but I get him there), and then to have me and him both fuck her at the same time. She'll figure out how when we get there.

It's a little ambitious and we end up with me in her pussy and her husband in her mouth, touching her face and pulling her hair. She moans up at him while I thrust into her and he tells her that she's the hottest fucking slut he's ever seen.

That seems to turn her on more because she's rocking back and forth between us hard and fast. He tells her that she's dirty and sexy, and that he fucking loves her and loves fucking her filthy fucking mouth while she acts like a nasty whore for me, and that's about when she comes. It's a little bit more talking than I really like in my sex but it works for them, and he's not far behind her.

It's not particularly pretty during or afterwards. She's an L.A. woman so she's beautiful, but he's average at best and all sweaty and panting they look ridiculous. But I think that them buying a hooker together like this is a lot more real than any Hollywood fairytale bullshit. It's kinda cute almost.

By the time I get home, I can't believe I thought that. I'm pretty sure E's a bad influence on me.

~*~*~

Entry 65

I fell asleep on E's chest watching The Pope of Greenwich Village on IFC in his hotel room. I over-relate to Eric Roberts' Paulie so I've seen it a few dozen times, and I was really fucking tired. Still, I don't _just_ fall asleep with people (with the exception of Bob and that's what he pays me for).

Falling asleep with E is starting to be a thing. A freaky thing. A thing that makes me feel twitchy and nervous and itchy under my skin, because it's so fucking easy.

It's like I lie down with him he puts his arm around me, and all the bones in my body disappear. I don't know why. If I could bottle it and sell it, I'd make a fortune the legal way.

I really like it. And it bothers me.

~*~*~

Entry 66

"So, when do we get to meet the boyfriend, bro?"

I choke on a bite of the salad I ordered. "Johnny, you—what?" I cough and spit half-chewed grilled chicken and Romaine lettuce into my napkin. I wonder if that's a good enough excuse to make for the men's room. But the three of them are staring at me, waiting for my answer.

"I don't have a boyfriend."

Johnny pulls a face and Kelly actually makes a sound that could be called a snort if she weren't, as she likes to point out, a lady. Turtle's got on his "don't look at me" face, but he's in on it. I know he is.

My throat hurts from the backed up chicken and I clear it a few times. "I don't."

"Sure, Vince."

"He could have a girlfriend," Turtle puts in.

Kelly rolls her eyes at him. "Turtle, baby."

"What? He could."

She sighs, presumably at the idea of me having a girlfriend. And okay, yeah, probably not, but really. I like pussy. Why is that idea so fucking absurd?

Johnny gives me a significant eyebrow wiggle. "Seriously, baby bro, I want to meet your beau."

For the love of God, just kill me now. I tilt my head down so that I can focus on my salad instead of my brother's earnest expression.

"Drama, who the fuck talks like that?"

"Shut up, Turtle. You wouldn't know class and delicacy if it bit you in the ass."

"Well, it sounds pretty fucking gay so it probably would."

"Boys, we were talking about meeting Vince's boyfriend," Kelly cuts in.

"I don't have one. I just… " I look over at Turtle. He shakes his head once, no, he hasn't said anything. Of course not. He's a true friend and he'll take that shit to the grave if I need him to. "I, uh, ran into E a while ago, is all."

"E Murphy? From the neighborhood?"

"Yeah," I push the lettuce nervously around on my plate. "He's got some big shot studio job and we've been hanging out."

"And fucking," Kelly says.

My face gets hot, which is crazy. Fucking is a word I say and think and do all the time. Turtle pulls down his baseball cap over his face and sinks down in next to his girlfriend. My brother stares at me with big eyes. "Really, bro?"

"Johnny," I sigh because it's not like I can lie. Well, I can but not now, not to Johnny. But I can't do this now, either. It's too fucking real. "It's—I don't know, okay? I'm not ready to talk about it yet."

"No, it's cool. Good for you, man. You've only been waiting for that since you were a kid. You get what you need. Just be careful, okay? You got broken last time."

I blink at him, stunned. Johnny left not long after E and the fact that he would say that pisses me off. He was in L.A. already. "What?" I ask, because what the fuck did he know anyway?

Johnny just shrugs. "Nothin'."

"Not nothing, Johnny."

"Turtle?" Kelly smiles at him. "I think I left something in the car."

"You need the keys?"

"Why don't you come with me and help me look?"

She doesn't wait for him to answer. She grabs his wrist and drags him with her outside. "Baby, I'm not done eating!"

We stare at each other for a long moment and the urge to throw my meal across the table at him gets stronger the longer Johnny sits there, not talking.

"Fucking _what_, Johnny?"

Johnny looks around, like the answer's somewhere on the walls of the restaurant before meeting my gaze. "Vince, you're my brother and I love you. You do whatever you want, but E broke you when you were a kid and you weren't even bangin' him back then."

I shake my head in denial. "E never did anything but be good to me when we were kids."

"You lost it after he went to Boston, Vin."

I did not. My expression—my arms folded obstinately over my chest and my jaw clenched so hard it was going to ache—must say it, because Johnny shakes his head.

"You did. Okay? You—" Johnny drops off and takes a deep breath. "When he left you were different. And it wasn't for the better. I just don't want him to fuck you up again if you lose him again's all."

"I was fifteen," I say through gritted teeth. I was ready to deny whatever it is that I have with E two minutes ago, and now I'm itching to tear into my brother for him. E was the only safe place I had as a kid, the only one besides Johnny who cared what the old man was doing, and I can't fucking deal with Johnny talking about him like this. It makes me want to do stupid things.  
  
Johnny breathes in deep through his nose and falls silent. We both know where the conversation is going to go next if he opens his mouth, and he doesn't want to go there any more than I do. But I can't stop myself pushing.

"I wasn't even fifteen. This is different. I'm a fucking adult now, Johnny."

"It ain't that different." That statement sits heavy in the air for a long moment. Then Johnny breaks it to ask, "Does he know what you do? Who you are now?"

"I don't have to put up with this," I snap, pushing back. It occurs to me that I'm reacting too fucking strongly over a guy who I just told my brother and best friend *isn't* boyfriend, but I'm too pissed to think straight. "I'll see you later, Johnny"

He grabs my arm and people are starting to stare. I don't know how we got here, but I just want to be out of there. "Fucking stop running away, sit down and finish this."

I flinch. Fuck him very much for thinking he knows fucking everything. He never wants to talk about what I do and now he wants to get personal? Fuck him. Fuck him with a brass fucking instrument.

I yank my arm away so hard I stumble backwards a few steps. He makes a move to help me but I glare at him.

"I'm leaving. I'll call you later." When I can look at him without wanting to throw something and run and scream all at the same time.

"Vince—"

I ignore him and walk out. I don't let myself feel like a coward, that's not what this is, and the very idea makes me even more angry than before. Running away. I'm not running away now and I didn't run away then. I ran for my fucking life. There's a difference.

Everything now is different. It is. It's got to be. And it's not my Goddamn problem if Johnny can't see that.

~*~*~

Entry 67

"Wake up."

"Fuck off."

"Vince." There's a kiss on the spot between my shoulders. "I've got work. Get up."

"Fuck me if you want, but I'm not waking up."

E laughs and kisses the back of my neck. "Throw some pants on and come have breakfast with me."

I push my face deeper into the pillow. "Eeeeeee."

"Yes. E. And you're Vince. Come. Get up. They've got cinnamon rolls downstairs. You don't even have to leave the hotel. Just walk to the elevator, eat, and then you can go back to sleep after I leave."

Those things are like drugs. Damn him.

"I hate you."

"I know. I hate you more." He bites the back of my neck. "Come on. Get up and have breakfast with me."

I roll out of bed with a groan and wonder how the hell E got me up before seven on a workday. I don't know. But he kisses me fast and deep before hopping off the bed and tossing me my slacks from yesterday.

I think I'll forgive him.

~*~*~

Entry 68

Ari runs what can only be called a gangbang about three times a year. He gets his top five guys and about thirty of his most wealthy and group-oriented clients together for an exchange of cash for services. I haven't missed one since the before Bush got elected, and that time I had bronchitis.

For the last couple years it's been held at Passive Acts Studios, this dungeon/fetish studio out by LAX. Every four months, he rents the whole fucking place out. Ari also sends in his security to keep tabs on things when it turns into a Roman style orgy, and it's the only time I ever see the guys beyond hulking, armed presences in the hallways of the agency.

I used to love it. There's a flat rate all the guys pay to get in at all that we get a percentage of, but the men tip. In hundred dollar bills. My first one of these was scary and sexy, a safe form of wish fulfillment of a few of my more dangerous fantasies. But this time, I don't know.

A couple of guest set me up in a sling early on and there's a security guard named Dave up by my head, watching me for panic and the guests for safety, but when I nod, they go to town. After about five, I lose track of how many times I'm fucked. Guys leave and come back sometimes, using my ass like a substitute fist before heading over to my colleagues. Practice keeps me calm and physically relaxed as they work me over and watch me but there's a gnawing feeling in my gut as I rock back and forth on strangely anonymous men. It's been too long since I did something like this if I'm feeling this uncomfortable with what's happening.

It's easier to keep count of the number of times I'm come on, it's more of a punctuation than a fuck. I hit double digits and my face and chest are wet. When my head hangs back, from the sensation of the fuck or exhaustion of holding it up with no support, it drips down the side of my face, my nose, and over my forehead, into my hair.

Someone uses a toy on me, but I can't see whom. My head's hanging down and upside down so that someone can fuck my mouth. But the dildo is at least as big around in diameter as the average wrist and it fucking vibrates. I try to scream around the cock in my throat and it sends him jerking out of my mouth to yank off the condom. His come lands on my eyelids, which are squeezed shut against the buzzing inside of me.

I pant and twist against whoever's toy-fucking me and I can hear them talking. Calling me things like slut and cockwhore and hungry bitch, and most of the time, I love this. I usually get off hearing them panting and beating off, and someone else grabs my hair and takes the last man's place. I gag like I haven't since I was a teenager and choke a little.

Someone takes my dick in his hand and begins stroking. It feels good in a distant kind of way, like my brain isn't connected to my dick. I like it, but I also just want it to end, so it's a relief when I come. Except that when I shoot, so do at least four other guys gathered around me. It lands on my chest and stomach, but most of it goes to join the mess on my face.

I snap twice, my nonverbal safe-word, and I feel all the hands let go of me. "Make it stop," I rasp to Dave who is still standing beside me. It's too fucking much. I'm raw inside and the toy is still buzzing away, almost painfully, and I need it to stop. I've been in situations like this plenty of times over the years but right now, I can't fucking take it.

He's one of those big guys, like Dom or the guy from the Green Mile, and he removes me from the sling. I'm ready to fucking cry when my arms come free and I can blindly pull the twitching, vibrating dildo out of me. It's doesn't stop humming when I drop it to the floor.

I can't open my eyes. I would, but I know for a fact semen stings like a bitch, so not until I can rise it off my eyelids. I reach out for Dave for support because my legs are kind of shaky and I can't see to the bathroom, anyway. He leads me there and turns on the sink to run warm water for me.

When I can see myself again, I feel my stomach twist. My face and chest looks like a fucking Jackson Pollack. Splatters of white, drying come paint my skin, and lube is dripping down my leg in a slow, cold trail.

I meet Dave's eyes in the mirror and lick my lips before I speak. I taste come and wince.

"I need a minute."

"No problem, Chase. I'll be right outside if you need me. Should I call Mr. Gold?"

"I'm fine. I just…I need a break."

He nods and leaves me alone with my thoughts. I don't like where they're going. I used to love nights like this. Hell, when I was 21, I would come three or four times at a GSA gangbang just like this one. I made five grand at the last one, came twice, and picked up a new regular client.

Now? All I want to do is go home and wash my face, and maybe get a chemical peel so that I can feel clean.

"Dave?" He sticks his head back in. "Can you get my clothes for me and call me a cab?"

"Sure thing. You sure you don't want me to call Mr. Gold?"

"It's fine. Really. I just…I think I over did it."

He nods and I get to work cleaning myself up with a paper towel and hand soap. It's insufficient, but it's enough to get me home. A few of the men who fucked me push billfolds into my hands as I walk back through the studio to the exit, and I pocket them easily. I don't feel guilty. I just feel empty.

~*~*~

Entry 69

"Chase, I've got-"

"I'm taking the week off, Ari. Call me next Monday."

"Chase, baby, come on."

"I need the week, okay? Trust me, better this than the client go away unhappy. I'm turning off my phone."

"Monday."

"Monday."

"You're lucky you're pretty."

"I've heard."

~*~*~

Entry 70

"Hey. You remembered how to work your phone. I'm glad you're not dead, Vince."

"God, E, sorry I haven't called you back. Work's been rough." I couldn't even pick up the phone with him with marks from the Passive Acts party still on my skin. But he's left these voice messages that…

They make me feel bad for not responding. So when he called this time, I answered.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Do you want me to come over?"

No. I haven't been out in two days and I'm convinced I can still smell come on me. But I can't seem to say anything but yes.

I jump in the shower as soon as I hang up. I've got shampoo in my hair when it hits me that E hasn't actually been in my apartment yet. I don't know how I managed that, but it's fucking moot now because E's on his way over.

I rinse off as fast as possible and scramble around my apartment shoving toys, economy packs of condoms, and lube into drawers, pushing costumes to the back of my closet, and in particular, hiding Gold Agency paperwork. My hands are sweaty when I buzz E in.

"How you doin', Vince?" E asks with a smile. He reaches out and pushes a wet curl off my forehead as he steps inside. I can feel myself uncoil a little as he touches me. It's kind of like a massage, only cheaper.

"Rough week."

He looks me up and down, taking in the set of my neck and shoulders then nods. "You want to stay here or put something on and go out?"

"Uh, you mind if we stay in?"

"No. I was kind of hoping you'd say that." He slides his hand around the back of my neck, possessive but tender, and squeezes once. "So, where's your TV? I've got to screen something from work. "

"You're addicted to work," I tease even though I'm not sure it's true. "The first step is admitting you have a problem."

"Or you could enable me and play my homework on your DVD player."

He tosses me the DVD then shrugs out of his suit jacket. Rufus set the whole system up back when Turtle was first working for him and needed a commission. It's more than I need, considering I don't watch that much TV.

I cue it up and when I turn around, E's got his tie off and draped over the back of the sofa on top of his jacket. His shoes and socks are off to the side on the floor and his bare feet sink into my carpet. He undid the top buttons of his blue shirt and rolled up his sleeves to just below his elbows, which are stretched out over the top of my sofa. He just looks…relaxed.

I want it to rub off on me, so I grab the remote and settle myself up against him, under an arm with my body curled into his. His arm comes down off the couch to rest around my shoulders and I sigh. It feels almost too good to be with him like this, like I'm gonna wake up and find out that I'd passed out in the bathroom at Grand Central Station and the last 12 years of my life didn't happen, and I'm still stuck in New York.

I start the movie and it's a mobster movie that doesn't even have a real release date. I hit pause before the opening credits finish rolling and look at E.

"What do you do, E?"

He shrugs. "Boring business shit. It doesn't matter."

"This is a Scorsese movie."

"It's a gangster movie. I thought you liked Scorsese."

"I do." I have since we were kids. It kinda awesome that he remembers. But still, what the fuck is E doing with Martin Scorsese's first gangster movie since Goodfellas? "It's not supposed to come out for a few months."

"We're trying to decide if we should release it in the fall, or if we should hold until awards season early next year."

"Awards season—the Academy Awards?"

"Yeah. Marty keeps calling and he wants to know what we've decided. [Dana](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=5x08_0395.jpg)'s getting ready to kill me if I keep making her talk to him."

My jaw actually drops a little. "You talk to Martin Scorsese."

"No, Dana does."

"E."

"What?"

"E, you're a fucking rock star aren't you?"

E shrugs and wraps his arm a little tighter around me. "I'm just a suit."

"That has superpowers. Your suit is like the Green Lantern ring, only it's a suit."

He laughs. "Vince," he clears his throat. "My boss wanted me to see if I can work in production—earn my wings for the real promotion. I'm just trying to get things done."

I glance at the Warner Brothers symbol floating in clouds on the screen, then turn and look back at E. "You know Marty freaking Scorsese. Jesus, E, talk about the American dream."

E puts his hand on my face and pushes. I laugh and shake it off. His ears are turning pink and God, that's so cute. He's pulled himself out of Queens and South Boston to become a bona fide success, the kind I cater to for a living, and he's embarrassed. That just fucking charming as hell to me.

I kiss the side of his neck and sink down in the couch so that I can rest my head against his chest. He grabs the remote off my leg and hits play, and we don't talk about the fact that he probably has Jack Nicholson's phone number on speed dial.

He points out locations in Boston where he spent time when he was in high school when they pop up on the screen. It seems like an okay place, Boston. It's easier to think about it with E right here than it was when he was gone. I fall asleep before any of the main characters get blown away and when I wake up the credits are rolling and my head is in Eric's lap.

"You want me to go?" he asks, his fingers pulling gently through my hair.

"No." Not ever a-fucking-gain do I want him to go. "Just…" I yawn. Why am I so tired? I haven't done anything in two days. I don't know, but I yawn again before I speak. "Bed?"

He nods and follows me to my room. I toss him one of my old t-shirts to wear instead of the dress shirt and white undershirt he's been in all day. He leaves his belt and slacks on my floor and climbs into bed with me in my shirt and his boxers. He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me against him. I smell myself mixed with the scent of his skin and tomorrow? I'm going to fuck him. Because he just feels so good everywhere and every way that it blows my mind.

Tonight though, I'm gonna sleep. And E's gonna be there when I wake up. I'm starting to get used to that.

~*~*~

[Contineu to Entry 71-85](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/251603.html)


	6. Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This inspired by Belle Du Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the [](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/profile)[entourage_fest](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/).

**Title:** Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy  
**Entries:** 71-85 of 151  
**Status:** Complete  
**Fandom:** Entourage  
**Word Count:**~7,900  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Entourage or anyone who has ever appeared on it.  
**Pairing:** Vince/Eric, Vince/Pretty much everyone else except Turtle, Johnny, and the Golds (seriously)  
**Rating:** NC-17 for lots and lots of sex  
**Warnings:** AU, prostitution, mentions of past childhood physical abuse, BDSM, gay sex, straight sex, group sex, rape fantasy, fisting, wax play, a foot fetishist, mentions of daddy-kink, extremely brief mention of watersports. _If any of the particular warnings are squicks for you, send me a private message and I'll tell you which entry to avoid!_  
**Betas and helpers:** [](https://guest-age.livejournal.com/profile)[**guest_age**](https://guest-age.livejournal.com/), [](https://justabi.livejournal.com/profile)[**justabi**](https://justabi.livejournal.com/), [](https://allyndra.livejournal.com/profile)[**allyndra**](https://allyndra.livejournal.com/), [](https://ariadne83.livejournal.com/profile)[**ariadne83**](https://ariadne83.livejournal.com/), [](https://pesha.livejournal.com/profile)[**pesha**](https://pesha.livejournal.com/) and [](https://deepad.livejournal.com/profile)[**deepad**](https://deepad.livejournal.com/) were all completely indispensable. Thank you so much.  
**Authors Notes:** This inspired by Belle Du Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the [](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/profile)[**entourage_fest**](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/).

**Summary:** Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.

[Entry 1-20](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/247618.html)   
[Entry 21-40](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/248082.html)   
[Entry 41-55](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/248741.html)   
[Entry 56-58](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/249647.html)   
[Entry 59-70](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/250583.html)

Entry 71

"What'd you forget?" I ask when E calls me. He's been sleeping at my place for the last three days while I'm on vacation. It's one PM and he should be working.

"Nothing. I've got a lunch meeting that just got cancelled and my broker just called," E says. "You busy?"

E's been living out of his suitcase since he came out to LA. How I've managed to miss him with all the work I do in his hotel I don't know, but it's moot because he's sick of it and if he's going to be staying in California for a few years, he wants something stable.

He claims that he needs a native speaker to come with him to make sure the broker's not fucking with him, but I know that doesn't have to be me. He's got this girl Sloan who, as much as I can tell, is like his version of Turtle and then some. And I know she grew up out here.

But it's time with E when he should be working, so I don't point that out. I just climb into his car when he pulls up outside my building fifteen minutes after hanging up. We drive out into the hills and I want to know what the hell it is that E actually does for Warner's because the last time I was out this far was when I worked that job for M, and he makes twenty-million a picture.

The first house E pulls up to is worth at least that much. The realtor is standing on the sidewalk when we arrive, creaming herself over the commission. I would be, too, if I where her. It's the real estate equivalent of a Saudi prince with oil on family land booking me for a long weekend.

"Jesus, E, did you find a sunken treasure or something?"

He laughs. "What?"

"How can you afford that house?"

He shrugs. "I'm valuable at work."

It's a glittering white monster with a balcony that seems to stretch straight out. The whole building is almost reflective because it's so white, and E leaves his sunglasses on inside. I cannot believe for a second he's just in production. Phil is in production, and his house was smaller than this.

"How valuable?"

He adjusts his tie a little and glances around the iceberg house. "Very. Look, Vince, don't make a thing of it. She's already jacking up the prices."

I don't really have time to react because the realtor is back.

"Tom and Nicole were looking at it before they split," the realtor says.

"Really," E says flatly. I don't see him rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses, but I know he does. And I smile.

She talks about the kitchen and the living room layout for another ten minutes before E cuts her off.

"It's not really what we're looking for."

She scrunches up her face and wow, is that unattractive. "Too much?"

"It's a little cold."

"I know exactly what you mean, Mr. Murphy. I think I have one that will be much more to your tastes. Why don't you two just follow my car?"'

We go to four more houses and E's phone is buzzing off the hook when she hits pay dirt. It's the last house she has for the day because E was supposed to be back at the office where he runs very goddamn valuable to Warner Bros. Studio.

It's a [Spanish estate](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=vlcsnap-2589132.png) off the Outpost and even from the outside, it looks amazing.

"This was one of Marlon Brando's first homes. He sold it to Johnny Depp in '95. Johnny was living here when he was making Ed Wood. " she says as we stand out on the landing. The [yard](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=vlcsnap-2590008.png) is tiered into three separate stories and at the bottom is a modest pool. "The owner's asking 4.3 million, so it shouldn't be a problem. It's well within your price range. If you like it, of course. I'll leave you two to talk it over," she says and heads down the steps toward the pool.

E and I walk back [inside](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=vlcsnap-2589818.png) to the curving spaces and clean lines and he takes off his sunglasses and looks at me. It's been two months since I found him again and I cannot handle him looking at me like that. I shove my hands in my back pockets and pretend to examine the molding.

"What do you think?" he asks, coming up behind me.

"I don't know, E. You'd be the one who has to live here."

"Yeah," E agrees with a sigh. "But let's pretend I care what you think for a second. What do you think?"

I lick my lips and try not to think about what it would be like to fall asleep in this building, what it would be like to have breakfast here with E. I fail and it makes my palms sweat. "I think it's a great house."

"Good," E says, hooking his fingers in my belt loops and tugging me to him. His chest is solid and warm against my back. He kisses my shoulder through my shirt and I force myself to relax into unfamiliar intimacy. It comes so damn easy for him. "Because it's less than I was going to spend and you look fucking amazing in it."

I smile and cover my hand with his. "I look good in Armani too, E. Doesn't mean you should try and buy the exchange."

"I can try," he says and I have to assume he's joking, even though his voice is totally serious. "Come on, Vince, can't you see you and me here?"

"I see you here."

"Well, there you go. That's good enough for me." E goes up a little to kiss my neck then pulls away to go find the realtor. I catch his wrist as he walks away and drop to my knees under a brass chandelier. E laughs. "You are such a horn dog, Vince."

He has no fucking idea. I rub my cheek against his thigh before I look back up at him. "I like seeing you here," I say as I unzip his pants and reach into his Calvin's for his cock. He laughs again and brushes the hair off my forehead.

"I like seeing you period, "he says, brushing his thumb over my lower lip. "Christ, do you have any idea what you do to me?"

I don't answer him with words, sucking his hard cock into my mouth instead. The wood under my knees is a little uncomfortable, but he tastes good and his hands slide back into my hair, running through it smooth and gentle.

He rides my mouth to a relatively quiet orgasm and pulls me up to him with a rough jerk. He kisses me slow and deep, licking what I couldn't swallow out of my mouth, and walks me backwards. My back hits a wall and he only stops when the realtor clears her throat.

"Gentlemen?" She's got a tightlipped expression that could be a suppressed smile, but might just be a result of bad Botox. "What do we think?"

E rubs the back of his neck and takes a step back from me, which sucks. But he's flushed and trying not to smile. It's shy. It's hot. He looks happy. "We'll take it."

I stop myself from pointing out that there's no we here. I like him looking like this and I don't want to ruin it.

~*~*~

Entry 72

Bob calls my cell personally and invites me over for the weekend. E's got to fly to London for something work-related, so I say yes. Then he calls Ari and makes arrangements that way because we don't like to exchange money. It feels like it cheapens a service I'm actually pretty happy to provide him.

He sends a driver and I sleep on the drive into the hills. The chauffer clears his throat and the housekeeper escorts me inside. I leave my shoes by the door and walk into Bob's arms.

Bob pays me for my time, and not much else. He doesn't like to be lonely and he cares about me. So, it's easy. It's pleasant. He rambles on but once you get used to it, you learn to listen and find out he's got some of the most amazing stories anyone's ever heard. My parents weren't big bedtime story people, so I kind of love it.

We go through the motions of the evening. We have dinner together and he shows me projects he's been "working on". I nod and I listen, and then I take him by the hand and lead him to bed. He bought me like six pairs of two thousand dollar pajamas when we first started this and by now I have a favorite, a red pair that are soft on the inside and silk on the outside.

I pull them on and climb into bed with Bob. He takes my hands and cuddles close to me. My heart breaks as it so often does when I'm with Bob, but this time it's because it makes me think of E and how for the last week he's been in my bed like I'm in Bob's.

"You all right, Chase?" Bob asks, his hand stroking over my back. I scoot closer and shrug. "You seem down. More tired than usual."

"You weren't tired when you were my age?" I ask.

"When I was twenty-five, I was too busy to be tired."

"I'm twenty-eight."

"You are? You don't look it."

Bob knows he doesn't have to flatter me, which makes me think that maybe those myths about semen doing good things for the skin are true. Still, I smile at him and scoot my head closer to his on the pillow.

"What were you doing when you were twenty-nine? I bet you owned the town."

"I was on my way up," Bob agrees. "Mostly when I was twenty-eight, I was wondering whether my wife was going to have a boy or a girl."

I push myself up on my elbow and look down at Bob. If he had kids, where were the pictures? Why didn't they come see him? He was a sentimental guy. Evidence of family would be all over the place.

"So, which was it?"

"I don't know." Bob says and God, I have never seen him look that sad. "Alice—" He breaks off with bright eyes.

"That's a nice name."

"She hated it," Bob laughs. "She thought it was plain. I told her, I used to say 'Allie, you're gorgeous, and changing your name isn't going to make you any prettier.' She didn't think Alice Markowitz could be a star, so she went by Alicia Marcus instead."

"I think I saw one of her movies on TV. Brunette right?"

Bob nods. "She had such talent, my Allie. She was going to be a star. I was going to make her a star. I wanted her to be happy."

"How'd you meet her?"

"I was producing a movie. She was an extra. She caught me feeling up one of the dancers and called me out on it."

"And you knew you liked her?"

"No. I thought she was uppity and a troublemaker, so I fired her." Bob smiles and the wrinkles in his face deepen. "But she still came to the studio every day until she got me to rehire her."

I smile back. "How long did that take?"

"We were done with production by then. I didn't hire her back on for the movie I fired her off of. It would've looked bad. She didn't realize and was furious with me when she found out. Her whole face would turn red when she yelled at me. Barged past my secretary into my office, read me the riot act, and then banged me right on my desk. We were married six months later. You know, I think I've still got that desk in storage somewhere."

I can't help but laugh. I've known Bob for years and it still weirds me out a little when he talks like that. "She sounds impressive. How come she wasn't a bigger name?" Bob had made superstars over the years. If he wanted someone to be famous, they would be. "Was the breakup bad?"

He shook his head into the pillow. "I loved her too damn much for a break up. Hell, I was young. I thought I ran the whole damn town and everything in it. I would've done anything to keep her with me. I thought I could do anything, but you can't, Chase. You can't do everything." There are tears in his eyes and they make my own eyes sting.

"There are no pictures," I blurt before I can stop myself.

"I've got our wedding pictures somewhere, I haven't looked at them in twenty years," Bob says. "We were married three years. She was younger than you when she died."

With the baby. He doesn't need to tell me that for me to know. I reach out and cup Bob's papery cheek with my hand. I brush away the tears because seeing them is fucking hurting me and this woman's been dead for more than forty years.

"I'm sorry, Bob."

"Don't be sorry. She was the best thing to ever happen to me. Things end, Chase," Bob says, running a hand gently over my shoulder. His hands are so different from E's, thinner and more delicate, but the tenderness is so similar. It's like my edges are fraying and I shut my eyes against him as he continues. "You can't say when or how, you've just got to enjoy them while you have them."

My throat burns because I'm in bed with a man who is older than my grandfather when I should probably be home. I'm letting him hold me like E does, when less than a week ago he was looking at houses for an _us_. I scoot my body blindly closer to Bob, looking for protection against the dread and fear I feel pushing their way out of my eyes and my lips.

"If you knew you'd lose her, do you think you'd still do it?"

He pulls my head to his chest and rubs my back like I don't even know what. But it feels good in a way that has nothing to do with sex, and it makes my lips tremble. "The only thing I would change would be how long I spent keeping her off the lot. Most people don't even get to have that once. So if that's what you're so tired about, Chase, I suggest think about if you'll still love them when you're my age."

"Do you still love her?" I ask. My voice cracks and I can feel tears fighting their way out of the corners of my eyes. I usually feel safe doing this with Bob, but now I feel damn exposed and fragile. I know Bob would never purposely break me, but that doesn't make it much better.

Bob's hand pauses on my back. Against my face, I feel his bony chest rise and fall in a heavy sigh. "I've never loved anyone else."

I crack and suddenly I'm crying like I only do with Bob, like I only ever have been able to do with him, and my hands fist in the back of his shirt. "Me either," I whisper and Christ, that's scary. My whole body is shaking and I'm so fucking scared of that.

"I know."

"I'm so fucked," I choke out. "I'm so fucking fucked."

He soothes, "It's all right, Chase. It gets easier. You'll be all right."

He doesn't say it gets better. Because I don't think for people like me and Bob it does. We fixate. We cling. We have one thing that works for us and always has, and when we lose that, what the hell are we?

I don't know about Bob, but I'm a used up, turned out whore. And E deserves better. He won't settle for less than better once he knows what I am, and then he'll disappear again. And then I'll be a used up, turned out whore with a shattered fucking heart.

And I really don't know how I'm going to deal with that. I can't tell him the truth like he deserves because I just don't have the willpower to say or do anything that could end what I've got with E any sooner than it absolutely has to. I barely made it when I lost him the first time.

Now that I've had him with me, holding me, inside me—I don't know how the fuck I'll be able to go back to before once he's gone. And it's definitely not an _if_, it's just a matter of when.

That's reality. It's what will fucking happen. There's nothing I can do about that. All I can handle in this moment is to twist closer to Bob, press my nose into the fabric of his pajama shirt that's wet with my tears, and try not to think about when.

~*~*~

Entry 73

Client is a regular in his forties who wants someone to talk down to him and humiliate him. He's got lingerie that I force him to wear and a paddle that's bigger than my head. It's a lot of work, physically, but it's a character that's so not me that it feels like an escape. I don't have to try and get off with this one—I tell him he's not worthy of my come and he's so twitchy he's actually enjoying it, which is good. Because E's still stuck in London and I don't feel like having an orgasm with this client.

~*~*~

Entry 74

"Do you want to drive me to the airport?"

"Not even a little. Traffic's a bitch at LAX."

"Turtle," I'm whining. It's pathetic but hey, Turtle's not a potential hookup or a client. I have to take different tactic. "Please? Come on, I'll owe you one."

"You owe me so many ones, Vin, that we're in triple digits."

"So I'll owe you one more. And I'll fill the tank."

There's a long pause. Turtle has said no to me before. It's not like it's unheard of or anything. But I really need him to say yes this time. "I need an oil change, too."

"Done and done."

"What you gotta go to the airport for, anyway?"

I rub the back of my neck even though there's no way he can see me from the Valley. "E's coming back from London tomorrow."

"He left the country?"

"Work stuff."

"Huh," Turtle says, and then there's more quiet. Turtle thinking on me almost always lands me with something I don't want to hear.

"But he's coming back tomorrow."

"Are you gonna let me talk to him?"

Two months. Two fucking months I've kept E away from Turtle and Johnny. Not to be a prick or anything, but they know things about me, things I'm not ready for E to know. Johnny especially. "Are you going to—"

"Come on, Vince. Jesus. You wanna lie to your boy, that's your fuckin' business."

Great. Now I feel like an even bigger piece of shit. "Turtle, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

"I know. I know, but E was my friend too, ya know. I mean, I wasn't all clingy and shit like you were, but he was my friend, too."

"I know."

"So, yeah. I'll take you to the airport."

"Thanks, Turtle."

"You're getting me some new rims for this. Forties."

"Anything for you, Turtle."

~*~*~

Entry 75

I ask a cop at arrivals where the charters jets come in, and he directs Turtle somewhere almost a mile from the main arrivals gate. And over there, it's a whole different ball game. The security is one guy with a metal detector and a dog. There's no police. There's not much of anything beyond a few limousines lined up to pick up their charges.

E is standing on the sidewalk when we pull up. He's wearing sunglasses, jeans, and a Zoo York shirt, and he doesn't look like he just got off a private freaking plane.

Turtle parks in a fire lane and is out of the car before me.

"Jesus Christ, you're still a short mick fucker, ain't you, E?"

"Turtle?"

They're hugging and I kind wish I had a camera or something. I don't really know how to work the one in my phone.

"In the flesh, baby. Nice to see Boston didn't kill ya."

"God, it's been forever." E laughs and then he hugs Turtle again. "How are you?"

"I get by. Yo, I think Vince might wanna say hi."

E blinks, then looks at me. His whole face cracks into a smile that gives him wrinkles around his eyes. "Hey."

"Hey. Miss me?"

E's kissing me before I realize he's moving. I stumble backwards and hit the side of Turtle's SUV, and I forgot this. I forgot how it feels when he was kissing me, like I'm burning from the inside out.

"If you get come on my car, I'm gonna fucking kill you, Vince."

E laughs into my mouth then breaks away, still smiling. "I missed you a little."

"Me, too."

"I know ya'll love to eat the cock and all, but some of us need to real food to live. I'm hungry and you promised me lunch, Vince.""

"Screw you, Turtle," E bites off, but it makes Turtle laugh.

It's totally nothing, but I can't really breathe for a second because this, right here, with E and Turtle messing with each other and us together? It's the only thing I've really wanted in the last fifteen years. I honestly don't know what to do now that I've got it. Maybe I've peaked. I think there's worse things that could happen.

~*~*~

Entry 76

Lunch is good. E spends most of it ragging on the fact that Turtle's got a girlfriend, while Turtle shoots back with good-natured gay jokes. Turtle talks about how Saigon's blowing up and what he does for Rufus, and E talks about seeing Big Ben and how the Tower of London isn't actually a tower but this fortress on the edge of the river, but doesn't mention what it was he was doing work-wise.

Turtle drops us off at my apartment two hours later and we don't make it out of the elevator, which, okay, is new.

I've honestly never done anything beyond making out in an elevator and suddenly E's on his knees between floors 3 and 4 sucking me off. It's been so long since he's touched me like this that I come like a freight train before I get to my floor.

He's got a little bit of come clinging to the corner of his mouth and I manage to get us into my apartment before I jump him. I taste myself on his lips, lick his smile clean, and push him back on my bed.

I'm not as young as used to be, but I've still got better recovery time than most. I thank God for that now because I want to fuck E like I have never wanted to top anyone in my whole fucking life, so I'm grateful as fuck that I'll be able to go again soon.

It's separation anxiety. Or something about having seen my come on him, maybe. I don't know. I'm not generally the marking/possessive type of guy when I'm doing the marking, but fuck. Fuck. I want. I fucking _want_.

"Please," I pant into his mouth. I feel like I have to ask because I haven't ever fucked him before. And I don't know, it might not be his thing. "I need to be in you ,E. Let me in, fucking please."

"Yeah," he breathes back. "Just, go slow okay? I haven't—"

He blushes, his whole face and down his neck. It spreads down his chest and I can see it through his open shirt. Jesus, God, he has to be fucking kidding me.

"You haven't ever?" That shouldn't make me so hard. Really. It's caveman bullshit. But fuck me, to be his first? Hell yes.

He nods slowly. "It never came up," he says, and then he lets out a nervous laugh at his own bad pun. I'm too turned on to laugh right now, but I smile back at him.

"You sure?"

"Don't be a dick, Vince."

"I thought that was the whole point."

"Look, either you're going to fuck me, or I'll fuck you. I don't care. But it's been two fucking weeks in the grey, the wet, and that empty fucking bed, so if you don't get on it—"

I kiss him, short and wet, just to shut him up. "Bossy."

"Lazy," he shoots back.

"Not that lazy."

I prove it by grabbing a condom and a tube of lube. It's the smaller one I keep in the night stand, not the jumbo size I've got in the back of my closet for work. I push thoughts of work out of my head because E is lying on his back in front of me, half dressed and waiting. Like that first time, only flipped around. It blows my mind that he still trusts me when he really fucking shouldn't.

"You've still got all your clothes on," E says.

"So do you."

"You should take them off."

"Again with the bossy. This how you do business, E?"

E grins at me, but his eyes go kinda dark and I get this hot feeling in my gut like I used to with Billy, only better because this is E. "Yeah. Take off your clothes, Vince. Slow. "

I do. And then I take his off as well. It's kind of like unwrapping a present. Freckled skin over hard muscle. All for me.

I lay over him and he sighs. "Vince."

He says my name and I'll do anything he fucking wants. I kiss the side of his neck and over his jaw. He groans in the back of his throat.

I pull back and grab for the condom. Once it's on, I move back over him. It's easy and it's good, and I'm kind of surprised that I fit on top of him as well as he does on me. I kiss him a little more, my hands slick and dripping. I slide my fingers against his hole and he tenses beneath me.

"You've gotta relax, E. It'll hurt at first, but it's good. I swear to God, it's good."

"I know. I've seen you." He gives another of his nervous laughs. "And heard you."

"Then just chill for me, okay?"

E actually rolls his eyes at me. "I'm chill."

"You don't feel like it."

"I'm relaxed."

It's not true. But he's trying so fucking hard that it actually gets me hotter.

I want to tell him that I know what I'm doing. That I've done this for hundreds of men I don't care about to the point where it's practically an art for me and that for him, I'll make it so good that his eyes roll back in his head and he screams for me. But I don't say any of it. I just stare at him and worry.

"Jesus, Vince, I want you. Just fuck me already."

Which is enough for me. I snake down his body until I'm face to face with his cock and take it into my mouth. Champion cocksucker me, and once I start, he actually does relax. His whole body tenses for a second and then it turns into spaghetti, limp and flexible.

He's twisting the sheets into a mess in his fists when I put lube-slick fingers inside him. I could probably just get him wet and slide in—keep him hot and be gentle—and it'd be fine. A million times better than my first, and definitely good enough to leave E wanting to do this again.

But E's all about taking precautions and being prepared. And bottoming's about the headspace as much as the dick inside you. I want his headspace to be so good he can't even think.

His whole body arches off the bed when I get two fingers inside him. I twist my wrist and drag over his prostate and he lets out a strangled noise. It hits me in the gut. His hands claw at my shoulders and I realize that I'm not good at waiting. Patience was never my strong suit.

I grab for the lube with my other hand. It slides out thick and gooey into my palm. I slide my fist over the condom and thank God for that layer of rubber because it helps me hold on until I can move up his body.

I kiss him, licking into his mouth, and he's pliant. It's weird. E never gives an inch but now he's letting me pull his knees up over my shoulders.

His arms wrap around the back of my neck. I can't see anything but his face. His lips are red from him biting on them and his eyes are too fucking blue. He tilts his head back and up slightly, asking for a kiss without words, and I can't deny him. I rub the side of my nose against his and press my mouth to his. I push into his mouth and his body at the same time.

Years of practice. Natural skill. The fact that I've already come once. It's the combination of those things that lets me stay still long enough for his death grip to loosen and not just shoot like a fucking Kalashnikov. I don't move until it changes again, kneading my muscles and encouraging me. I let my hips roll into him and it's such a cliché, but it really does feel like home, like I've never belonged anywhere but with E, in E.

"Vince," he gasps. "Vince, oh God, Vince." He looks kind of lost, like he doesn't know what's going on, and it's so weird to see him looking to me for help when I've always turned to him.

I wedge my elbows closer together, not easy with his legs on my shoulders. But I have to be able to touch his face, to hold it between my hands. "Yeah. I'm here. I know, E. You got it."

He nods then bucks up into me. His heels dig into my shoulders for leverage as he pushes up and back onto me. E changes the pace, takes us faster. He's twisting and thrusting on the mattress and against me like I don't even know. I've never seen or felt anything like it and he keeps looking at me, into me, and through me.

"I—Vince—I feel like—I can't—Vince, I can't fucking breathe."

I laugh, but it's choked because I can't really breathe, either. He's so fucking hot and tight around me, spasming and squeezing. The hairs on his legs and chest are soft and electric on my skin as he moves. He's fucking beautiful. "Good."

"You're a bastard," E manages on a breathy moan as I hit his prostate.

"You like it," I murmur. But just to prove that I'm not a bastard, I shift my balance so that I can take his cock in my palm. The rhythm of my fist is choppy, as most of my effort is focused on keeping my arm from giving out and meeting E's strokes.

"Love it," E agrees. "Love you."

I don't respond that. I can't. I just—I can't.

I kiss him instead and slam into him so hard that I can actually feel his breath knocked out of him and into my mouth. He screams down my throat and comes all over my hand and our stomachs. His feet flex on my back and his hands tangle in my hands and pull, hard. The edge of pain is enough, it sends me over, coming into the condom and E.

It's one of the top five greatest orgasms of my life. And when I come down, E's got his arms and legs around me. I shouldn't have this hollow, sick feeling in my gut. Not after that. Not with E.

~*~*~

Entry 77

Rufus is having a barbeque on Independence Day. Kelly says I'm supposed to bring a date. Which means she wants to meet E. Turtle's said something. I don't know what. I don't think I want to know. But I tell E about it as I'm helping him look at furniture for his house and he just kind of looks at me, wide eyed and stupid-looking for awhile.

"Look, if you don't want to—"

"No, I do. I want to go, Vince. Really. I think it'll be fun. Thanks for asking."

"Yeah, sure thing."

He gets a mahogany dining set and a couch that you could drown in that'll take up half his living room. It's brown and leather, and it might be more comfortable than my bed.

He pays for it all with a black AmEx. I pretend not to notice. He pretends not to care that I still haven't said, "I love you," back.

~*~*~

Entry 78

The client fucks me. He's older and he uses Viagra, so it goes on and on and on and Jesus fucking Christ, on. He's not one of my regulars—I'm doing a favor for this guy, [Adam](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=0132.jpg) at the Agency, who's getting some dental thing done—and the client's not very good.

Every time he comes close to setting up anything remotely resembling a rhythm, he gets tired or bored or ADD, or something. I feel like my ass is bruised on the inside. The problem with a bad fucking—not a violent fucking or an attack or anything, just a bad top—is that he's still in me, moving me from the inside. And no matter how used that hole is, it's still got nerves.

I'm gonna walk with a limp because Enzyte Bob never had anyone correct his technique. Adam owes me so fucking big, the son of a bitch. He's going to pay me back for this—I just haven't figured out how yet.

~*~*~  
  
Entry 79

I've got a regular, [RJ](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=vlcsnap-2594355.png), who's a huge comic book geek. They're his living even, a surprisingly good one considering he can afford me.

He likes me to dress up as different superheroes and rescue him. And then take him. It's actually kind of fun. Cheesy. Dorkiest fucking thing this side of Johnny's Viking Quest fans. But still fun.

I make a damn good Superman and I can do stuff like Spiderman, Wolverine—anything with a full body-costume—no problem. He even made me dress up like Wonder Woman once. That was weird, but interesting.

But occasionally, he'll pull out fucking comic book characters I've never heard of. Who the hell is Rorschach? The guy showed me a picture—the fucker is ugly. Why on earth would you want that? And what's the Blue Beatle do, anyway?

I have no idea. It doesn't really matter. But today he wants me to be Squirrel Girl. Yes. Squirrel. GIRL. He's got a stuffed squirrel to go on my shoulder and I don't even know. What am I supposed to do with that? Chitter and take it I guess.

At least he's got a sense of humor about it. I can usually keep my composure (practice and professionalism and all) but sometimes, like when he says something like, "Oh, yeah, I'll fuck you so good, Squirrel Girl, you furry bitch," I just can't help it. He doesn't mind if I crack up, so long as I wear the leotard.

~*~*~

Entry 80

Johnny calls me at noon on a Thursday, which is typically my off time. I don't usually do nooners on Thursday because, well—lately anyway—I've been meeting E for lunch. But even before that, there's something about Thursdays that just makes daytime bookings go bad.

I don't know. I think it's kind of like saying MacBeth in a theater or something. I just forget sometimes that Johnny pays attention to little things like that.

"Vin, it's me."

"Yeah, Johnny, hey." I haven't had a real conversation with him since the fight. We've texted back and forth because I couldn't stop communicating with him altogether, but it's been awhile since we spoke. A long while. Almost a month. I feel like a fucking cunt for cutting off contact with my brother for that long. Johnny's always been there for me. How could I do that? "How are you?"

"Are you going to that thing on the fourth?"

"At Rufus' in the Valley? Yeah. You got a date yet?"

Johnny laughs. "Nah, you know me. I'm going to fly solo. Probably pick up someone there. The ladies can't resist me."

I pull the phone away from my mouth to hide my sigh. Something's shifted—in me for sure since E got back from the UK but in Johnny, too—and I think we're on the way back to normal.

"No," I agree by way of apology, "They can't."

"So, uh, Turtle tells me you're bringing E."

"Yeah."

"How's that goin'? You two getting on good?"

"Yeah, Johnny. It's real good."

"You being careful?"

"Johnny—"

"I don't mean wearing a rubber, bro. I mean, you watching out for yourself?"

"I'm trying."

Johnny lets out a frustrated grunt, but doesn't push it. The lines of communication are only newly opened and he knows better. We both do. We're Chase men after all—we know when not to poke a sleeping bear. I'm just not used to being the bear.

"Listen, Johnny if you can't find a date, I know this girl—cute, blond, good with a rope— "

"Yo, I don't need cast off pussy from you, Vince. I'm beating them off with a stick as it is."

The conversation steers away from me and I relax a little. It's good to have my brother back.

~*~*~

Entry 81

I hear a joke at the Agency today when I go in to pick up my official pay check, the one I report on my taxes from all the credit card jobs I've done. One of Lloyd's better ones.

"What do you get when you cross a genius with a hooker?" Lloyd asks with a big smile. "A fucking know-it-all."

I tell E when he drops by my apartment after work and he chuckles. Then (because E's got a fucking competitive streak nowadays or something), he one-ups me with a joke that devolves into a description of the most disgusting, obnoxious, grotesque, horrific, incestuous sex on the freaking planet. I'm repulsed and laughing so damn hard I can't see him anymore, but I know that he's still got a straight face. He does it without cracking even a smile right down to the punch line.

"And afterwards, the family stands up and takes a bow. So the talent agent says, 'What do you call this act?' And the family says, 'The Aristocrats.'"

"I don't get it." It makes so little sense that I can't help but laugh.

E laughs and shakes his head. "That's the point. You started this."

"You come up with all that crap on your own?"

"We had a development meeting with Robin Williams last week and he just had to tell me, new guy to the Hollywood scene and all that. Most of that's his. The bit with candles and the ice cubes was mine, though, 'cause I'm pretty sure I left some things out."

"Dude, that had skull fucking." I laugh and plant my feet in his lap on my sofa. I love this almost as much as I love fucking him. "Someone fucked a human skull in that joke. I think you covered everything."

"That's nothing. You want disturbing?"

"Hit me."

"When my Grandpa Gallagher drinks? He starts reciting dirty limericks. The shit that comes out of his mouth, you wouldn't believe it. He's got that accent, plus he gets really into it. Way too into it."

Then he repeats one of his grandfather's favorites about a whore from Kuala Lumpur that actually turns my stomach. And filth is my business.

"You've got a dirty mind, E."

His thumb is stroking over my ankle and he smiles. "It's pretty dirty right now."

I wonder if he's going to do something with my feet. I've got a regular who's a foot fetishist. It's harmless and kind of nice, and for E, I'm game for just about anything, but all he does is run his fingers over a small patch of skin.

"How dirty?"

He doesn't answer. Instead he squeezes my foot and says, "C'mere."

I end up in E's lap, sighing into his mouth as our dicks rub against each other in his hands. I plant my hands on the back of the sofa for balance and just let him do what he wants. He's still got his fucking suit on, which is so weirdly hot. His insanely expensive watch is cold on my thigh and when I come, it gets all over his tie.

~*~*~

Entry 82

Rufus is a good guy. I've always liked him and he's done real good by Turtle. Of course a big part of that is because Turtle's done good by Kelly, but still, you wouldn't guess that when you first meet him. He's a scary guy—huge and bald and imposing—like Dom coulda been if he could've kept his ass out of prison and stuck with anything for more than a month.

Also, he throws a damn good party and his wife's barbeque is borderline orgasmic. I'm thinking about asking Kelly if she can get me some of the sauce they use on the ribs so I can lick it off E later.

E. Here. With me and Turtle and Turtle's gorgeous girlfriend and her family and Johnny and in my life. I'm distracting myself from how nervous I am with a plastic cup full of beer and a loop of _everything's fine_ playing in my head, but still. Right up until Johnny opens his mouth, I'm in fucking knots.  
  
"You grew up good, E. Look at you," Johnny says when he finally does speak to E. "You're a freakin' businessman now. Come a long way since Queens."

"Thanks Johnny. It's good to see you." He holds out a hand like the gentleman he somehow transformed into while he was gone. Johnny grabs the hand and pulls him into a hug.

When they break apart though, Johnny takes E by the shoulders. "It's good to have ya back, E, but you break his heart again, I'll break your fuckin' legs. You got me?"

I groan and E's mouth actually drops open in shock. He nods dumbly. Johnny pats him on the shoulder.

"Excellent. I need a beer. You guys in need?"

"We're good, Johnny."

Hours later, when we're up on the roof of Rufus' house watching the fireworks, E leans over and says "Again?"

"Later," I promise. I don't want to talk about that at the moment. I thread my fingers with his and lean against his shoulder as the sky explodes with color. I'm happy right now.

~*~*~  
  
Entry 83

E fucks me awake. It's slow, soft, and warm and he's on his side, spooned up behind me. He moves my knee, pulling my leg slightly up and back over his thigh. His arm is wrapped around my chest, tying us together.

I gasp out of a dream about firefighters using a fire hose that sprayed blue Jell-o at forest fires to the so much better reality of E's cock so deep inside me that it's like I can feel it pressing the air out of my lungs.

"God, E—"

"You are so fucking beautiful," E murmurs, kissing my neck. He's still moving. Fucking languid is the best word for how he's moving, and I feel like I'm melting. "So fucking beautiful that I can't look at you sometimes. Do you have any idea what you do to me, Vince?"

I reach an arm behind me and grab the back of his neck, needing more. My body rocks, digging and headed towards desperate. But he stops me from reaching for it by letting go of my torso to grip my hip.

"Easy," he soothes. "It's okay to be easy, Vince. I just want to be inside you for a while. Relax."

And I do. I turn pliant, but not my usual kind of I'm-whoever-you-want-me-to-be moldable. It's like…I'm still me, but all my bones are gone and I'm just this lose, squishy Vince-shaped thing that's held in place by E's hands and E's dick and E's body pressed against mine.

"That's it. God, Vince, the way this fits." His lips are dragging over my skin. "I always knew we would."

"Don't leave me," I pant. I'm still a little drowsy and with the feel of his gentle rocking and firm hands, I'm too unraveled. I don't know where that comes from, but it's out now.

"I'm not going anywhere," E promises. He leans forward so he can kiss my mouth, morning breath be damned. He turns my head towards him so I can see his eyes. "I'm not leaving again, Vince, I swear."

~*~*~

Entry 84

I have to lie my way out of a premiere. E wants me to go with him to some red carpet thing.

"It's no big deal. You'll kill it. Come with me."

I know I'll kill it. I've walked that walk before. With too many people for me to take that walk with E. Someone would know who I was. I don't know who, but someone.

I'm gonna have to talk to Ari about changing my profile for the fall premiere season. About changing my entire business plan, actually. I don't think I can keep walking into the unexpected as much anymore, not and keep fucking E regularly.

It's tricky and flimsy. A house of motherfucking cards, man. When did that become my life?

~*~*~

Entry 85

Scott tells me about the new head of Warners. A short, East Coast prick is how Scott describes him. New to Hollywood, changing shit up. He's ruffling feathers and making moves.

"But he's fucking good," Scott says. I nod and he groans because well, his cock is down my throat and the motion kind of changes things up for him. "He just had a premiere, tore the Goddamn house down, I'm telling you. Gorgeous people everywhere and it's breaking records left and right. He knows what he's doing."

I hum in response and he pulls my hair, hard. He calls me baby boy and comes in my mouth, bitter and hot.

He keeps talking after I pull my lips off him. He likes to rehash business during sex. I think he's ADD—gotta be doing more than one thing at once. Usually it's the whole Daddy/boy thing but even when its not—things have to be complicated for Scott to be happy. So he keeps talking about how he's gotta deal with this new guy while he plays with my dick like it's a toy.

"He hot?" I ask, because that's the sort of thing Scott loves to dish on. The fuckability of people in the industry.

"Eh, he's not bad. He's short and not in a good way. Young though, like you."

"Not as fun, I bet."

He gives me a smile that's half Dirty Old Man and half genuine. "Nobody is, Chase. Nobody."

~*~*~

[Continue to Entry 86-105](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/252374.html)


	7. Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This inspired by Belle de Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the [](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/profile)[entourage_fest](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/).

**Title:** Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy  
**Entries:** 86-105 of 151  
**Status:** Complete  
**Fandom:** Entourage  
**Word Count:**~5,700  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Entourage or anyone who has ever appeared on it.  
**Pairing:** Vince/Eric, Vince/Pretty much everyone else except Turtle, Johnny, and the Golds (seriously)  
**Rating:** NC-17 for lots and lots of sex  
**Warnings:** AU, prostitution, mentions of past childhood physical abuse, BDSM, gay sex, straight sex, group sex, rape fantasy, fisting, wax play, a foot fetishist, mentions of daddy-kink, extremely brief mention of watersports. _If any of the particular warnings are squicks for you, send me a private message and I'll tell you which entry to avoid!_  
**Betas and helpers:** [](https://guest-age.livejournal.com/profile)[**guest_age**](https://guest-age.livejournal.com/), [](https://justabi.livejournal.com/profile)[**justabi**](https://justabi.livejournal.com/), [](https://allyndra.livejournal.com/profile)[**allyndra**](https://allyndra.livejournal.com/), [](https://ariadne83.livejournal.com/profile)[**ariadne83**](https://ariadne83.livejournal.com/), [](https://pesha.livejournal.com/profile)[**pesha**](https://pesha.livejournal.com/) and [](https://deepad.livejournal.com/profile)[**deepad**](https://deepad.livejournal.com/) were all completely indispensable. Thank you so much.  
**Authors Notes:** This inspired by Belle de Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the [](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/profile)[**entourage_fest**](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/).

**Summary:** Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.

[Entry 1-20](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/247618.html)   
[Entry 21-40](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/248082.html)   
[Entry 41-55](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/248741.html)   
[Entry 56-58](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/249647.html)   
[Entry 59-70](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/250583.html)   
[Entry 71-85](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/251603.html)

Entry 86

We get thrown out of three different furniture stores "testing beds" for E's new house. The owner of the fourth one takes E's card, looks at it, sighs, and tolerates our antics. In exchange, we keep our clothes on. Mostly.

E and I lie next to each other on California king mattress after California king mattress. Sometimes we just lie there. Sometimes we make out. Every time, regardless of what we do, E asks me, "What do you think?"

"It's your bed," I say over and over again. "You have to sleep in it every night, not me."

"Yeah, but let's pretend I care what you think for a second. What do you think?"

And then, I tell him honestly. We try out pretty much every bed in the building, much to the dismay of the owner.

"I like this one."

"Good. It's been like two hours, E. My balls are actually turning blue. Seriously, like bright Smurf blue."

"Do you like it?"

"E, for the love of God—"

"Just tell me. Do you like it, too? Tell me the truth. I can tell when you lie."

My heart jumps up into my throat and then my stomach drops to my knees even, though I'm flat on my back. But his eyes are a happy blue that shines and I know that he can't really tell. And because I owe him for so many fucking lies, I tell him the truth this time, no holds barred.

"I could fall asleep right here."

His face splits in a huge smile as he sits up and waves over the insanely patient sales associate who's been working with us all evening. "Hey, Barry? I think we found it. Sorry about that."

"It's no trouble, Mr. Murphy. I'm just glad we could help you find what you need."

I lie on the bed next to E as he hands over that fucking black card again, getting used to it.

"This is my side," E says, reaching out towards the right hand edge of the bed.

"It's your bed, E. They're all your sides."

~*~*~

Entry 87

I meet [Sloan](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=5x10_0288.jpg), finally, when we move E into his house at the beginning of the month. She's tiny and exotic-looking with long dark hair and olive skin. She's fucking stunning, is what she is.

I watch her carry the boxes that shipped to her apartment from New York and remember that before E came out, they were a couple. I can see that. Vividly actually. Like, I can see the kids they could've had together. Kids with wavy black hair and E's freckles.

She stares at me for a long time when we're first introduced. She holds my hand too long, as well. I don't breathe while she does, because this is the woman who bought me as a sexual present for E. Of course she recognizes me.

But she also recognizes me from the pictures E has of us as teenagers that he's got stashed in the many boxes we're unloading. So maybe she's commending herself on picking such a good copy. Or maybe she knows. I have no idea. But if she does know, she doesn't say it.

"You have no idea how glad I am to meet you, Vince," is what she opens with, instead. And she means it. "I feel like I know you. I've heard so many stories over the years." Then she laughs and tucks a strand of her perfect hair behind her ear.

"Good things, I hope."

"Don't tell him anything," E warns, dragging a box out of his Bentley.

"No," I agree. "Don't tell me anything. Tell me everything."

She got the years I missed. She was there. She spent years fucking him. She watched him rise up the rungs on the corporate ladder. And I want to know.

So when she heads back to her apartment to get more of E's stuff I go with her. The trip there is all her talking about how she met E (at a free concert being held on the Harvard Yard), how long they dated, how her father introduced to him to his current boss [John Ellis](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=5x07_0078.jpg), and that kind of thing. E's a bit of a nesting creature if Sloan's to be believed, and so far, she's not wrong as far as I can see. It's not until we're driving out of West Hollywood away from her apartment (which is less than a mile from mine) that she brings up what he said about me.

"I remember once he moved back to New York for business school, he used to call all over the place looking for you. He used to call your mother like, every two weeks. He went to Arthur Kill to talk to Dom. I remember he even tracked down one of your brothers—Ronny maybe?"

"Ricky." The prick. He and I had never gotten along, even when we were little. It was always me and Johnny against the rest of the family. Ricky was the next youngest boy after me, and he tended to side with my other brothers. They were all way too much like my old man for me to get on with them decently.

"Yeah. Eric found him his first semester. But he said he hadn't spoken to you in four years and didn't know where you were. I remember Eric actually got pretty drunk that night," she says softly. "We broke up not long after that. It was so clear he was hung up on you."

I swallow hard and stare out the window at Los Angeles rushing by. I can't look at her. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. He's an amazing person and I'm glad to have him as a best friend. He's the brother I always wanted and I get to find someone who's going to love me best. I deserve that." She glances at me out of the corner of her eyes as she drives. "And so does he."

It had to be easier for E. He knew Johnny and Turtle from before. There were patterns of behavior he could pull from. She is this foreign being with her sunny smiles and candor and intelligence. I have no idea how to deal with her.

"Sloan, I don't know what to say to you."

"You don't have to say anything. He's told me some things that you and your brother have said. It fucked you both up getting split like that. I get it. I more than anyone. You know I actually hired an escort that kind of looks like you to try and help him move on?"

She laughs and I panic again. It's instant, the chemical reaction. My heart is pounding and sweat slicks my palms and the back of my neck. God, please don't let her say anything.

But she shakes her head at herself. "I guess he wasn't meant to. He canceled on him and then ran into you instead. It's kind of karmic almost, the universe giving him what he actually needed rather than what I thought he wanted. Shows you what a small world this is, doesn't it?"

My throat is so dry my voice is a croak. "Tiny," I reply on a sigh that is pure relief. If she does know, she's not going to say anything. I can breathe again.

~*~*~

Entry 88

It takes two weeks for E to get all the way moved in. Sloan does most of the arranging. She's got that feminine touch thing that makes the place look lived in instead of like a cold museum to Hollywood yesteryear stuffed with anachronistic furniture.

The thing that gets me is the pictures. E's got so many pictures all over the place. Pictures of him and Sloan. Pictures of the two of them with a group of friends. There're several shots of E with a severe-looking bald man in a five thousand dollar suit, both of them looking proud. There're pictures of E with his family, of his dad, of his mom with his grandparents.

I've got basically no pictures from before L.A. I've got one in my wallet of the four of us: me, Turtle, E, and Dom from when we were like, twelve but other than that—I left everything with my ma when I took off.

E hangs on to things. He's got shirts I recognize from high school and textbooks from college.

It definitely makes it clear the house is his, though. He's all over it, in it, and I think it looks even better this way.

He doesn't ask me to stay the night. I can't. I have work. But I tell him I'll come back when I get off if he wants.

"I'll be asleep."

"I'll just go back to my apartment, then. See you tomorrow?"

"No, I was just telling you so you'd be quiet coming in."

"Oh." And then he hands me a key on a fucking Statue of Liberty keychain.

"So I don't have to let you in," he explains. I just nod and add it to my keychain.

It changes nothing. Except that I can't resist the urge to take an extra shower after I'm done with work.

~*~*~

Entry 89

Ari: Are you sure you want to do this?

Me: Ari, I told you already—

Ari: I know what you told me, baby, but you're a moneymaker. Do you know how much you pulled in last year?

Me: A hundred thousand?

Ari: Try three, not counting my cut. If you stop taking on the spot bookings, you're going to lose more than two thirds of your client base.

Me: I'm not stopping. I'm just taking them less often. That still leaves me with six figures a year. I'll get by.

Ari: Not in this town, you won't. The guy who landscapes my yard pulls in that much in six months, and nobody's coming in his mouth.

Me: Well, that's probably why.

Ari: If you would let me book the Marxes again, you could pay off a year's rent in one weekend.

Me: They almost broke me last time, Ari. I'm not that good. Besides, you know Mrs. Ari would kill you for that.

Ari: What she don't know—

Me: Lloyd would tell her. You know that, right? He's more afraid of her than you. So, just, narrow it down for me, all right? I don't want any surprises, okay?

Ari: Fuck you for getting domestic on me.

Me: You've got two kids, Ari.

Ari: And yet I could still fuck my way through the talent pool, and I bang my wife twice a night, six nights a week. I'm not wimping out here, Chase. You are.

Me: Six?

Ari: She takes shabbos off. Whatever. She's gagging for it, sucks me off after temple sometimes.

Me: Just help me out, okay, Ari? I don't want to have to go somewhere else.

Ari: You don't, babe. I just think you'll regret it. I'm trying to watch out for you.

~*~*~

Entry 90  
  
So, the thing is—my client list is my retirement. Freddy says it doesn't have to be, but Freddy is in Europe 11 months out of the year so, what the hell does he know?

But I'm looking through my phone and trying to figure out who I'm going to keep and who I'm going to get rid of. Bottom line with Ari and the Misses is that they don't want to lose me. But I have to make calls and narrow shit down if I'm going to turn this into something I can hide from E long term. Like, until I actually do retire, which I don't expect to do for another…well, specialty work could honestly keep me in business another ten years if my looks hold.

So, Bob, Scott, RJ, my foot fetishist, and M. for sure. Other than that…I don't know for sure. I've got a few married industry men who need to be as discrete as me because I fucking know where the bodies are buried and in what position. I've got female clients who I can't work with because of the public stuff they need and female clients I'm not sure I can abandon, like Shauna. It's all a question of who I can risk and who I can't afford to let go of and still keep E.

I've got over two hundred professional contacts. Cutting that down is going to take awhile.

~*~*~

Entry 91

Jake's got a clipboard in his hand. It makes him seem more official than the white coat ever could. "How many sexual partners have you had since I last saw you?"

"Christ, Jake, I don't know. At least twenty-five. Probably closer to thirty-ish. Can't you just take what you need and drop the blade on me?"

Jake pokes at the under side of my neck, back behind my ears. "You being safe?"

"Yes, mom. I brush my teeth after every meal and I always throw spilled salt over my shoulder, too."

Jake sighs like he's tired. He probably is, at least of me.

So I push it, cause that's just what Jake brings out in me. "Can you do one-day testing?" I ask.

"What's your rush?" Jake shoots back. Usually I want to be out of his office as fast as fucking possible, results be damned.

But if I've got something then E could—

"None of your business, Jake. Just rush it, wouldja?"

He stares at me for a long time. And then it clicks in his head. God, he's getting slow in his old age. His forties are gonna be brutal on him.

"If you're doing this behind your partner's back then—"

God, I really don't fucking want to hear it. "A, he's not my partner, and two—"

"You mean B?"

"Fuck, fine, B, if anything, you can't fucking say shit. Doctor-client secrets or whatever."

"Confidentiality," Jake sighs and rubs his eyebrows with the butt of his pen. "And I can advise you yet again to quit, as you are putting yourself and your lover at risk."

"Yep, and I can tell you once again that I can't."

"Then I advise you to tell your partner so he can protect himself."

"Are you going to rush that for me or not?"

Jake sighs again. "Phyllis will call you with the results before five this afternoon. Now hold out your arm and be quiet for the rest of this check-up."

I bite back a sarcastic, "Yes sir," and just nod. He's a buzz kill 'cause he cares. I get that. I just wish he would shut the fuck up.

~*~*~

Entry 92

There's an email in my inbox from Billy. I delete it without reading it. I don't remember giving him my email address, but I must have.

~*~*~

Entry 93

I won't admit it to him, but I love E's new house. It's a little empty with just him, but it's amazing. I walk through the halls barefoot while he sleeps sometimes. I work the night shift, so just because I crawl into bed with him when he crashes out and stay there until he's asleep, it doesn't mean that I sleep.

I don't know why. I don't usually go down for houses. I think it's because I haven't spent this much time in one since before I ran out.

In the house in Queens, the one we moved to after Ma started working and we had enough to get out of that hellhole of an apartment, I actually had my own room before Donny moved back home. No lock on the door, though. My old man broke it our first week living there.

Fucking nowhere in that house was safe. You go in there with one of those CSI blue lights, half the furniture in my room'd turn up spotty. Fucking crazy. It's been more than twenty fucking years since he really beat the fuck out of me the first time, and I still don't know what I did so consistently that made that son of a bitch so fucking furious. Something though, 'cause it was never calculated. He'd just lose it at me.

I asked Johnny about it once, if he ever got any shit from our old man. As far as he knows, it was just me, and occasionally, Ma.

I don't doubt E knew, not with the way he'd sneak me in on fucking weeknights just to sleep on his floor. Fuck, everyone knew—all the guys I hung out with.

Dom actually threatened the old man once right to his fucking face. That almost made up for the fact that he felt like he needed to, the way the old man reeled and then walked away. The next night was when he pushed me down the stairs, broke my arm, and Johnny went after him.

I've never been as scared as I was while living with my father. Not the time during my first month working the street when that john bullied me into the bricks of an alley and fucked me so hard I bled, not living with Junkie Thing 1 and Junkie Thing 2, and not sleeping in the fucking subway tunnels.

This house's got none of that, though. No one's gonna smash my head into the wall or dresser. The door's not going to explode open at 3 AM and I'm not going to get dragged out of bed and awoken with a punch in the gut. If there's a bang or a crash, it's either E dropping something or a car backfiring outside.

It feels like brighter, more beautiful version of E's mom's old house. It's just got that vibe to it, like nothing's going to break through the locks here. Nothing could.

I end up on the floor a lot. They're this wood that's cool and polished. I sit on there at night, up against the window, looking out over the backyard. The moonlight reflects off it and it's just so damn pretty.

I don't think this floor'd be as easy to sleep on as the carpet in E's old bedroom, but in a pinch, I think I could swing it. Better than concrete. Not as cold. And E's right down the hall.

Maybe that's what I'm doing on the floor, trying to find that kid I was on E's bedroom floor so I can be that with him when he wakes up. And usually, long before the sun comes up, sitting there on the floor calms me enough that I can go get back in bed with E and actually sleep. I almost always sleep through him going to work, but I don't always leave right after I get up.

Like I said, I like it here.

~*~*~

Entry 94

I almost cut [Steve](http://s648.photobucket.com/albums/uu204/IllicitExploitsFicAlbum/?action=view&current=5x04_0170.jpg), a regular I've had for the last few years. He's a fucking dangerous one to keep. Of all the clients I've stuck with, he's the biggest risk.

The guy's the head of Universal. He's a got a wife and kids. So it's not likely that he's going to say anything.

But he's a movie machar who almost certainly runs in the same circles as E. And E's got all those fucking pictures he's kept. And Sloan's camera happy, so there're new ones, too, and I haven't been to his office or anything, but if it's like his house, there're pictures of me.

Crossover's something I'm not used to being afraid of. But it's out there now. I've fucked half of L.A. and two-thirds of that half paid me for it. People E probably works with every day, important Hollywood movers and shakers, have had their turn with me.

But Steve looks like the guy from Animal House, only old, which is kind of hot to me, and he pays ridiculously well for a bimonthly meet that's fairly uncomplicated. He books the hotel room at the Beverly Wilshire, he blows me, I get fucked, sometimes there's a switch up, and then he goes back to his son's ballet recitals and his daughter's rugby games.

So he stays on the list and we both sign new confidentiality agreements. I keep papers like that stored in the bank, but still. It's kind of fucked that I have to do it all.

I told Turtle and he says I should quit. But he's been trying to get me to quit for ten years, so what's he know?

~*~*~

Entry 95

One of my regulars has the flu. He throws up on my shoes when we part ways afterward in the hotel lobby, gives me the money to replace them, and tells me to go home—he'll call me when he's well.

He's a good guy, really, but I think the bug has gotten into his head and started to destroy his brain. I throw the shoes away before I climb into my cab. I bag my clothes in garbage bags and I take a long hot shower. The last thing I need is to get sick.

~*~*~

Entry 96

I get sick in E's car. I don't remember getting in it. Or out of it.

~*~*~

Entry 97

I wake up nauseated in my own bed and I don't know how I got there. I manage to make it off the mattress and thank merciful fucking God, there's a trashcan right there. I don't have to ruin my carpet or try to get my sheets down to the laundry room in this condition. There's nothing good about throwing up, ever, but at least like this, it's not on me or there for me to step in later.

I'm retching up food I don't remember eating when a hand lands on the back of my neck. It's so cold and abrupt that I jerk away instinctually. I'm still gagging and I almost knock over the wastebasket. The hand leaves my neck and grabs my shoulder.

This is my home. No one should be here. I didn't call Johnny or Turtle, so why is someone here when I'm like this? I'm too sick to throw an elbow, so I just groan into the tilted trashcan as the hand rubs my shoulder. Another hand grabs my arm and gently pulls me back.

"Shh, Vince, it's me."

And I go limp, falling against E's chest. I don't know why he's here. I don't care. Now that he's not holding me upright, his hands are on my forehead and neck. They're cold and they feel so good on my burning skin.

"Calm down, all right? You're fine. Let's just get you back into bed okay?"

I don't nod. I just let him pull me up. He's not strong enough to pick me up but I don't have to put my weight down much to get back into my bed.

"I called Sloan's doctor yesterday and he said it's a stomach flu that's going around. Few more days and you'll be back to normal. So, sleep, alright?" He finishes getting me covered back up and then puts my landline phone next to my hand. "Hit redial when you wake up or if you need me. I'm in the living room."

"Stay." It's a selfish thing to ask for. He can't afford this bug any more than I can, but I want him to.

He looks at me and sighs. "You don't want me in there, Vince, you'll overheat." But he throws back my sheets and climbs in anyway. I roll over slowly and plant my face in the fabric of his faded, red BU t-shirt. His hands are still cold and they slide under my shirt and press against my back. I focus on the way his hands feel and I'm able to sleep.

~*~*~

Entry 98

When I crawl out of bed, I make a beeline for the bathroom. I smell from old sweat and sick, and my mouth tastes like sewer run off. I fumble for mouthwash, take a slug, and then stumble into the shower with my mouth full. The hot water hits me like a waterfall and one spit and five minutes later, I actually feel like a human being again. A nauseated, headache-y, exhausted human being but hey, progress is progress.

E is finishing making my bed, fresh cotton sheets that look like heaven on earth. He's got glasses on, which is crazy 'cause I didn't even know he wore them, and there's a stack of papers on the nightstands farthest from the bathroom. He smiles at me as I stumble out wrapped in two towels.

"You look better."

"Thanks."

"Think you can eat anything?"

"Maybe?" I won't know for sure until I try.

"Sloan sent soup. Matzo ball."

E's got the best fucking friends on the planet. "I love her."

He laughs and guides me back to my bed. He hands me a pair of boxers and gives me a little push. "Sit down before you fall down, Vince. I'll get you soup."

He comes back with a mug I forgot I had—a strange yellow monstrosity that Turtle gave me as a gag gift—and a spoon. He hands it to me and then settles back down next to me and reaches for his papers.

"Work?"

"Mhm." He nods, not looking up from the paperwork. "And I've kinda set up a fax machine in your living room so I didn't have to keep calling Dana down here to pick stuff up. Hope that's okay."

"Yeah. That's fine," I say, holding the mug in both hands because my right one was starting to shake alone. "Thanks."

He reaches out and absently rubs my back. "No problem."

~*~*~

Entry 99

I go back to work exactly a week after I pass out in the passenger seat of the Bentley. Steve's happy to see me. Ari had to reschedule him and everyone else. I meet him at a hotel a few blocks from his studio at 11:30 in the morning. He takes it easy on me, fucking me from behind, lying on our sides—slow and smooth.

It's pretty convenient, actually. I have more than enough time to shower before meeting E and Sloan at the Ivy for lunch.

~*~*~

Entry 100

I walk out of my apartment on my way to meet up with Johnny and Billy Walsh is standing leaned against one of the palm trees planted in front of the building. He's not as thin as he was when he left. His beard is thicker. His hair is longer. He grins at me and that shark thing that used to turn me on makes me more than a little nervous.

"Billy, hey."

"Vince. Fuck, you look good enough to eat."

"Um, thanks."

"You busy?"

"Yeah, Johnny's waiting for me. So," I wave at the cab parked on curb, "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"I'll drive you."

"I've already paid for the cab."

"I'll call you later, Vince."

I don't answer. I just nod and climb into the cab. It's a little cold of me, but it's the only thing I can think of to do.

~*~*~*~

Entry 101

Saigon's got a gig in Hollywood. It's a small club but it's a headlining gig, and Turtle's starting to turn the guy into a local celebrity. And in L.A., the step from local to national celebrity is a small one.

Turtle makes a point to invite me and E. Apparently Snoop and Jay Z's people are supposed to be there and he doesn't ask for moral support, but it's so obvious that he needs it. And it's not like I would ever say no.

E, on the other hand, spends the whole week trying to rearrange his meetings to make it work, but his phone doesn't stop ringing for ten minutes. Every time it buzzes, he looks like he wants to chuck it at the wall or something.

"Don't sweat it, Turtle'll understand."

"I didn't want to be that guy. You know, the asshole who can't pull himself away from his fucking work for his friends."

"Yeah well, that's what they pay you the big bucks."

He kisses me and shakes his head. "I'll get there. I just probably won't be there until after Saigon's set, fucking Gary and his fucking ego trip. You go now. I'll drop you on my way to the lot."

I stroke him hard in the parking lot before I get out of the car. He calls me a fucker and drives away promising retribution. I laugh and head inside to find Turtle and Kelly. They're in a VIP corner towards the bathroom with Johnny, Black Hack, and a few of Saigon's friends whose names I don't remember.

Between Saigon's first and second set, there's a DJ. Kelly drags me out onto the floor because Turtle's working and dancing with Johnny looks like dancing with a spastic gorilla. Kelly, on the other hand, is a fucking goddess on the dance floor, and I mostly sway from side to side and watch her move with her eyes closed.

I've always said it's a good thing Turtle met her first.

It changes when a hand lands on my hip—male definitely, and strong—and I can feel a package grinding into me from behind. This isn't that kind of club and that hand is not E's.

"You look so fucking hot, Vinny. I could fuck you right here," he says into my ear, half-shouting over the music.

I don't jerk away and I don't make a scene. It's just Billy. He can't take a hint, but he's mostly harmless. So I just take a few steps forward, turn to face him, and shake my head. He looks pretty much the same as the other day, right down to his shirt.

"What?" Billy shouts back over the pulsing rap.

I shake my head again and gesture towards a door. It opens to the smokers' patio, quiet enough and reeking of cigarettes in the warm air.

"I've been thinking about fucking you again for months," he says and moves towards me. I take a step back. I don't know how it's different from work or what, but it is, and I need him to not put his hands on me.

"Billy, stop."

"What? You know I can give you what you need."

"I can't Billy, I'm sorry. I'm seeing someone." I try not to smile at being able to say that out loud, because that's not going to help things. It's not. It'll just piss him off more. But E's supposed to be here tonight and I do not want him to see Billy with his hands on my body in any way.

"The fuck you are."

"I am. And as my friend, I need you to back off. Okay? I'm sorry."

"Vince, come on."

"I'm sorry, Billy. But you can't do this. Go, all right? "

He looks like a kicked puppy, but I leave him out there. I park myself in the booth with Johnny. I don't move until I see Billy cross the club and go out the exit and E finally arrives, frustrated and tired, but the best thing I've seen all night.

~*~*~

Entry 102

I wait until after E's come to tell him about Billy. That's just common sense. Everyone is in a better mood after orgasm. I don't even get up off my stomach, just turn my head to the side so I can look at E.

"He's a crazy ex. So just, if he shows up, just ignore him."

He's tracing patterns over my back "How crazy?"

"Did you see his movie?"

"Yeah."

"Like that, only with worse hygiene and like…absolutely no sense of boundaries."

"And you fucked this guy regularly?"

"Only for like a month. Whatever, he's crazy so just, ignore him, okay?"  
  
"You're gonna have to distract me," E says, and then he kisses me and I'm glad I haven't gotten up.

~*~*~

Entry 103

I have the following conversation with Johnny between arriving at the Peninsula and ordering breakfast.  
  
"Make Walsh stop calling me, Vince."

"Maybe he wants to hire you, Johnny. He said you did great stuff in Queens Boulevard the last time we spoke." Which, admittedly, was months ago. I don't count the lurking shit as a conversation.

"He wants to fuck you and I'm not your madam."

I glare across the table. "Jesus, Johnny, that's not funny. Fuck you."

"Fuck me?" He holds up his phone and the voicemail box is full. "Sixteen messages. Handle your business, baby bro. I don't want to have to change my number."

And then the waitress shows up and we stop talking about Billy all together.

~*~*~

Entry 104

I swear to God, Billy has finally lost his grip on reality. I look out my window and there he is, hiding behind a palm tree in a trench coat, dark glasses, and—honest to fucking God—a fedora. I can't help snickering to myself in the elevator on the way down to the street to find out what the fuck he thinks he's doing, but once I get out there, I can't do it. It's too funny. He's sitting on a bus bench, my bus bench, wearing a cliché private dick costume holding a newspaper in front of his face. Upside down.

There's no way I can confront him about this without laughing my ass off and I know instinctively that I won't like what happens next if I laugh in his face.

So instead, I hail a cab, hop in, and watch Billy throw himself in front of the next taxi in the rear view mirror. I just know the cracked fucker is saying, "Follow that car!" and I lose it. I giggle and flash on an image of me and E—twelve years old and sneaking into the theater to see Who Framed Roger Rabbit.

~*~*~

Entry 105

He follows me to M.'s place. The man only calls me twice a year and the driver does everything short of running red lights. That scares me. He doesn't make it past the gate, but he parks outside and he's there when I leave.

He doesn't follow me to E's, but he doesn't need to. The fact that he followed me all the way up here tells me that he knows where to go.

~*~*~

[Continue to Entry 106-120](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/252764.html)


	8. Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This inspired by Belle de Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the [](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/profile)[entourage_fest](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/).

**Title:** Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy  
**Entries:** 106-120 of 151  
**Status:** Complete  
**Fandom:** Entourage  
**Word Count:**~6,000  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Entourage or anyone who has ever appeared on it.  
**Pairing:** Vince/Eric, Vince/Pretty much everyone else except Turtle, Johnny, and the Golds (seriously)  
**Rating:** NC-17 for lots and lots of sex  
**Warnings:** AU, prostitution, mentions of past childhood physical abuse, BDSM, gay sex, straight sex, group sex, rape fantasy, fisting, wax play, a foot fetishist, mentions of daddy-kink, extremely brief mention of watersports. _If any of the particular warnings are squicks for you, send me a private message and I'll tell you which entry to avoid!_  
**Betas and helpers:** [](https://guest-age.livejournal.com/profile)[**guest_age**](https://guest-age.livejournal.com/), [](https://justabi.livejournal.com/profile)[**justabi**](https://justabi.livejournal.com/), [](https://allyndra.livejournal.com/profile)[**allyndra**](https://allyndra.livejournal.com/), [](https://ariadne83.livejournal.com/profile)[**ariadne83**](https://ariadne83.livejournal.com/), [](https://pesha.livejournal.com/profile)[**pesha**](https://pesha.livejournal.com/) and [](https://deepad.livejournal.com/profile)[**deepad**](https://deepad.livejournal.com/) were all completely indispensable. Thank you so much.  
**Authors Notes:** This inspired by Belle de Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the [](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/profile)[**entourage_fest**](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/).

**Summary:** Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.

[Entry 1-20](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/247618.html)   
[Entry 21-40](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/248082.html)   
[Entry 41-55](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/248741.html)   
[Entry 56-58](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/249647.html)   
[Entry 59-70](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/250583.html)   
[Entry 71-85](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/251603.html)   
[Entry 86-105](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/252374.html)

Entry 106

I drop onto the couch in Ari's office with a heavy sigh. "I have a problem."

Ari presses his thumb against his eyebrow in frustration. "Do not tell me you've gone and recreation-fucked yourself into an anal fissure. I can't give you time off, so if you did, just pop a fucking Percocet before you go to work."

My face twists in disgust. "Jesus, Ari."

"Okay, what? Come on," Ari demands, snapping in my face. "I'm a very busy man. Things to see, people to do."

"I've got a stalker."

"One of ours?"

"No."

He rolls his eyes. "Tough shit. Be more careful who you let cornhole you on your off hours and maybe that shit won't happen."

"He followed me to an appointment last week. Actually, he followed me to fucking all of them Ari."

Ari sits up in his chair and looks at me. "Who?"

"Steve Parles, Scott Wick, and M."

Ari hisses. All three of them are big money clients, and all of them pay for the privacy more than anything. "Christ, Chase, you're a Goddamn professional. Ten fucking years in the business and you let yourself get a tail? You paint a fucking target on your ass and wave it in front of the guy?"

"He's fucking stalking me—what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to shut the fuck up and let me think." He's on his feet pacing in an instant. "Do you know who it is, or is it some random Internet stalker whose appointment you didn't take?"

"He's an ex. Billy Walsh."

"The director?"

"Yeah."

Ari nods and keeps pacing. Then he stops, opens his door, and shouts, "Lloyd!" It's kind of amazing watching Lloyd work. He taps every contact Ari has and in under ten minutes, Billy's information—from his distributor, to his agent, to where his parents live—is in Ari's hands. It's kind of scary what Ari could do with connections like that. World domination probably.

"Okay. I'll take care of it."

"That's it?"

"That is fucking it, baby. Get your moneymaker back to work."

"He's outside the agency, Ari."

"He won't be by the time you get down there."

I hear him call over to his wife's office and hell, he's not wrong. Billy is gone by the time I leave the building.

~*~*~

Entry 107

E's company is having a Halloween party, which is being held at the Beverly Hilton and is going to be one of those crazy, you-only-get-to-see-pictures-in-the-tabloids-if-you're-lucky type deals where A-listers and shit are supposed to come out of the woodwork. . It's still two weeks until the actual holiday, but apparently Warner's acquired some big something or other, I don't know. I don't read the trades unless Johnny's in them.

Point is, costume party. Great, I can do that easy. I can make myself unrecognizable and actually go out in public.

I dig out the body paint and E goes white.

"What the fuck is that?"

"Paint."

"Yeah, I can see that. Why did you bring it?"

"Because…" I don't know. Because usually I just wear a G-string and let Rope Girl paint me up for Gold Standard costume _parties_. It's my go-to costume. "I don't know. I thought it'd be hot. I make a mean fairy."

"You are a mean fairy."

"Bite me."

"Not right now."

"What are you going as?"

"Baseball player. I've got my high school uniform and I'm pretty sure it still fits."

"You gotta go as something at least moderately cool, E. You can't shame your colleagues like that."

E unscrews a container of bright blue body paint, looks at it, then up at me. "Were you going for Smurf with this?"

"I hadn't decided yet. Come on, E, it'll be fun."

E laughs. "Once a drama fag, always a drama fag."

"I've got green. You can be an elf or something."

"That's not funny." E's got height issues, which I don't really understand. But then again, I hit six feet when I was sixteen, and E's stuck under five and a half.

"Fine. Green M&M. They're supposed to make you horny, right?"

"Why? You got a hard on for green, or something?"

"Come on, you could melt in my mouth, not in my hand."

E levels me with a long stare. "You're a manipulative son of a bitch, Vince."

"Thanks. Now take your shirt off."

~*~*~

Entry 108

I leave E's side for ten minutes to get a drink and I come back to find him talking to Scott. Fucking Daddy Scott. My heart stops beating for a long moment as E's hand lands on the base of my back and he introduces us. I went as a red M&M (so that E wouldn't feel quite as ridiculous. I don't think it helped, but the act of him painting me was so hot that we barely made it out the door), so it's not like Scott couldn't recognize me.

"He's the producer on a few projects that we're working on. Scott, this is Vincent Chase."

"Lovely to meet you, Mr. Chase." He says my name slow and slimy, and Christ. This is ten years of my worst fucking nightmares made real. "I must say, the two of you look good enough to eat."

"Thanks, Scott." E laughs.

"You look good, too, considering you're old enough to be my dad," I say and E glares at me, but Scott just smiles. It's something of a truce. Silence for silence.

"Thank you, Mr. Chase. Have a good time with your boy, Murphy. I'll see you around."

I don't start breathing again until after Scott walks away. And then I'm so fucking relieved that I can barely hear E bitching at me.

~*~*~

Entry 109

"What're your thoughts on trick-or-treating?" E asks. He's actually carving a pumpkin. It's a mess—orange pumpkin guts are all the way up to his elbows—but he seems happy. I don't remember him being this into the holiday when we were younger. Probably because he didn't like the costume element back then. I like to think that I've worked on that.

"I don't think people actually do that in this neighborhood, do they?"

"I'm pretty sure that Bruckheimer's got kids. I don't know. I've seen some kids on bikes."

"Candy of choice?"

He waves me towards a plastic bag of candy. "Snickers? Milky Ways? I don't know. I just had my assistant get something."

"Fun-sized?"

He rolls his eyes at me and flicks pumpkin goo at me. "Fuck fun-sized. There's nothing fun about a third of a candy bar. A full sized candy bar is fun-sized."

I laugh. "I love you."

It falls flat and suddenly we're staring across the apartment at each other. E's fucking shoulder-deep in a pumpkin, and this isn't what I meant to do. Fuck.

"E, I'm-"

"Don't, okay? Just let me say, 'Me too,' and finish carving this fucking thing."

"Okay."

"Okay. I love you, too. Go put the candy in a bowl for me, will ya? I'm disgusting."

"Okay."

Fuck.

~*~*~

Entry 110

I recognize Billy's building when Ari gives me the assignment. I leave three-dozen messages on Billy's cell that I'm not taking the assignment, but apparently none of them get through.

I call Adam less than 12 hours before the appointment and call in that favor. He bitches at me for a solid twenty minutes before caving because its not like I haven't done this for him, and I know for a fact that Billy actually is a good fuck (unlike his client), so I don't feel too bad.

~*~*~

Entry 111

E picks me up from my place looking messy and tired. His assistant got the crap scared out of her by a near-violent crazy man and security had to drag the guy off the premises. Then E spent the rest of the afternoon talking her down and making sure she was okay.

I don't ask if it's Billy. I can't. The probability that the answer is yes freaks me out so much that I can't get my leg to stop bouncing in the car. Not even when E reaches across the gear stick and puts his hand on my knee.

~*~*~

Entry 112

We're in E's house maybe fifteen minutes before the buzzer goes off and there's a voice echoing through the intercom. It's Billy, and he's screaming so loudly that it's incoherent nonsense.

"I'm sorry. I—I had no idea he'd do this." Not true. I had an idea. I just didn't realize that he was this far out of his fucking mind. Not back when he was fucking me.

"It's fine," E says, turning off the intercom. But the calls start not long after that. His neighbor down the street. Across the way. Next door. All complaining, and the actor next door threatened to call the cops.

I'm not sure why we let Billy in instead of letting the cops take him away. Press issues for E's company, maybe? Because it was always going to come to this, more likely. The gate sliding open feels weirdly like a countdown on a time bomb, and I kind of wish E and I had had time to fuck before this all fell on us.

Billy is panting when they open the door. Sweating and glaring at us with wild eyes.

"What the fuck, Vince?"

"Billy, what do you think you're doing, man? You can't do this."

"And you can do this? With him? He's a fucking suit, and not a very good one," Billy spits the word "suit" out like it's the dirtiest curse word in the book. "You're better than that, Vince. He wouldn't know art if it snapped up and bit his dick off, and it lives in you. You should be where it can speak."

E moves just a little so that he's standing between me and Billy. "He's speaking just fine, so why don't you calm the fuck down and then go home." He jerks his head in the direction of the still open door and I cling to the small hope that Billy actually will.

"This don't concern you, suit. So why don't you take a step back so me and Vince can talk?"

"It concerns my partner, then it concerns me," E shoots back, and my heart doesn't stop beating in my chest when he calls me that. It doesn't turn me on to watch him stand up to Billy, either. Really. "And you're in my house, which also makes it my business. So say whatever you want to say, then take your psychotic obsession and get out of our sight."

Billy shakes his head and finds my eyes over E's shoulder. "This? You'd choose this over me? Seriously, Vince, I know I ain't perfect, but what the fuck makes him better than me? What makes his money better than mine? I need you, Vince."

I wonder if this is what a heart attack feels like. I can feel my pulse in my skull and my throat's closing up so that I can't breathe. I can't fucking breathe. "Billy, it's not like that."

"Is it ‘cause he's got more of it? Cause he booked you earlier? Cause you ain't meant to be a kept man, Vince. You're better than being his personal fuck-toy."

E's fist lands solidly with Billy's jaw. Billy stumbles back, spitting blood onto the slick wood floor, then grins with red-stained teeth. He looks like a satisfied hyena from one of those Discovery Channel documentaries Johnny watches all the time.

‘Yeah, ya feel like a big man, dontcha suit? You've got your pet whore, and your tiny Jackie Chan-wanna be moves, and you feel like a big man instead of a shrimpy, pencil-dicked faggot."

"You don't speak to him that way. You hear me?"

"E." It comes out a whisper because my throat isn't working. And I can't get enough air for any real volume. My lips form the word please, but it's not going to stop the head-on collision we're racing towards.

"You can pretty it up however you want, but a whore's a fucking whore."

"You shut your Goddamn mouth, or I'll knock the rest of your fucking teeth in."

"How much does he charge you a fuck? I paid fifteen hundred and he didn't even turn up. You gotta be paying more than that for the dating shit. What is it, two K? Three? Big studio head, you can afford to pay to keep your dick wet."

E's hands are clenched so tight at his sides that I'm afraid he's going to strain something, or hit Billy again. There's a muscle twitching in his jaw that I haven't seen move like that since he was twelve and we ended up in that fight on the basketball court behind the elementary school.

Billy licks blood off his lips and wheels to face me. "So why not me, Vince? You know I'm good for it. Queens Boulevard got picked up for distribution, I've got a three picture deal, and I can fuck you so good your eyes roll back in their sockets and your tongue hangs out of your mouth like a dog in heat. So why not me? What the fuck's wrong with my money that you'll take this fuck's and not mine?"

"It's not like that."

"I talked your pimp. He told me it was copacetic. Why won't you just—"

E pulls his cell phone out of his pocket with extra careful movements, trying not to break the plastic with his clenched hands. "I'm calling the fucking cops."

"I could give you what you need, Vince. I wouldn't make you keep tricking like this fuck. You could stop."

"Billy, I'm—"

"Don't say you're not. You are. I fucking found you." He reaches into his back pocket. There's a crumpled up ball of computer paper in his hand and he chucks it at me. His aim is awful and it hits E in the chest.

I get a rush of vertigo as E catches it and unfolds it, his cell still in his hand. I hear him take a sharp, deep breath before shoving the paper into his pocket.

He moves across the room, grabs Billy by the shirtfront and pushes, hard. He shoves Billy again until he stumbles outside.

"You're lucky I don't kill you where you stand, you understand me? If you're not off my property in thirty seconds, I'm going to call the cops. And if you ever speak to me or him again, you'll be lucky if you can make SciFi channel MOWs for the rest of your career."

He doesn't wait for Billy to answer. He slams the door shut, throws the lock, and leans on it heavily.

"E, I don't—"

He holds up a hand. "Don't. Just don't fucking say anything. Just don't fucking talk, all right? Just don't. I can't take another fucking lie right now."

"I'm not lying, E. Jesus, will you just hear me out? I don't know what he showed you but—"

E yanks the paper out of his pocket and thrusts it at me. It's my Gold Standard website profile. The picture is five years old, but it's me, mostly naked, bent under my work name. To the side of my picture is the stylized list of what I will and won't do, and a link to client reviews.

"E…" I reach out to him and he actually flinches away from me.

"Don't, okay? Just fucking don't."

~*~*~

Entry 113

I sit on the floor of the living room, my back against the sliding glass door that leads to the porch and back yard and my knees tucked up to my chest. E is half way through a bottle of scotch that's older than we are, and he hasn't spoken to me yet. E's a beer guy—even in the nicest of restaurants, he goes for beer. Watching him drink hard stuff like this, it's almost as scary as the fact that he won't look at me.

I want to touch him. I want to kiss him. I want to fuck him. Because I have a very real sense that this is going to be the last time I'm going to be with him and I can't—

I can't have it end without some fucking closure, something to remember. I can't live through that. Not again. But E's a fucking world away.

It takes nearly an hour before he gets deep enough into the bottle but then—finally, mercifully—the questions start.

"How many?"

"How many what?"

He laughs and it's a sharp, ugly sound. "How many people have paid you for your," he waves his half-empty glass in the air, "services."

"I don't know. You'd have to talk to my manager."

"You mean your pimp. You have a pimp." E gives another of those broken, hateful laughs. "Because you're a whore."

"E, please—"

"No, no, it’s fine. It's great. We're talking. I'm not done talking. We're going to talk."

"Okay, E."

"Can I have a ball park?"

"High hundreds."

"Jesus, fuck."

"Nope, never." I did have a gig where the client wanted me to dress as priest, but I don't say that. I'm just hoping to break the tension but it fails, badly.

"I…Jesus. Were you—" he breaks off midsentence and takes another drink before he can finish. "Were you there for me, the night we met again? Were you supposed to fuck me?"

"I didn't know it was you."

"You were the guy Sloan got for me, weren't you?"

"E, it wasn't like that."

"Chase. His name was Chase. And you're—Fucking hell, Vince Chase. And you just happened to be there looking like—God. God, how fucking stupid am I?"

"You're not. Christ, E, I swear to God, it wasn't like that, E. I slept with you because I wanted to. Because I missed you and there you were, right in front of me after fifteen fucking years. Because I've wanted you since I was twelve years old. It wasn't business. You couldn't be that for me, not ever."

He presses the glass to his forehead. "You worked odd hours. Night job. You were always on call. "

I say nothing to that. What the hell can I say?

"How many times did you lie right to my fucking face, Vince? How many times did you kiss me before you went off to let some strange guy fuck you inside out?"

"E, it's not the same."

"How is sucking my dick any different than anyone else's? Is there any fucking difference besides the money?"

"I'm with you because I want to be. It's not even the same thing. You're my exception, E. You're—"

"I'm a goddamn chump, is what I am. Do I need to get tested for anything, Vince? Do you have any fucking idea what you could've tracked back to me? Christ, I haven't had to get an HIV test since the nineties."

"I got tested a couple weeks ago. I'm negative across the board."

"That's so fucking comforting, Vince," E drawls. "I can't even tell you."

"E, if you would just hear me out."

"About what? About how we've been together for six fucking months and you've been fucking other people for money the whole Goddamn time? It says you're up for fucking group shit on that page, Vince. That you're good with fucking bondage and being—who the fuck—how—" He takes a deep breath through his nose and presses his palms into his eyes. "I can see you with them in my head, and it's disgusting."

"It's really not like that, E. It's what I do. It's not who I am."

"What you do is a huge part of who you are, Vince, no matter what you do. And you—you—"

"I hook."

He exhales and pulls his hands off his face. His eyes look red and I'm not sure if that's from the drinking or the pressure or what, but it makes my stomach twist and turn over.

"Vince, I don't understand. I don't fucking understand. Why you would do this?"

I shrug. "It's easy. And I've been doing it for years, so it's not really…" I swallow hard, knowing what I'm about to say will probably fuck things up even more, but I can't lie to him. Not anymore. "It's not really a big deal. It's something I'm good at. I can be whatever they want me to be."

"You wanted to act."

"I wanted a lot of things. I want you."

"You came out here to act."

"Yeah. But I had a trade and the acting wasn't happening."

I watch it hit him. Three, two, one, and the fucking A-bomb drops in his brain. His mouth opens, to ask, but I cannot fucking hear it. I can't hear him ask.

"I moved out, all right?" I push myself farther away from him and press my back against the cool glass, staring at the base of the coffee table between us. "I moved out and I had no high school diploma, no fucking skills, and I took care of myself. So you get as angry as you fucking want, but don't you fucking pity me, E. I took care of myself. I got the fuck out of there and I built a life for myself, a good life. I don't want your fucking pity."

"Vince—"

"Don't. 'Cause the why is that I liked it. Some days, I loved it. I could bend them, E. I could break people and put them back together. They got what they needed, and I got mine, and it worked. It all worked like fucking clockwork until I found you again, so don't you pity me. Fucking hate me, but I don't need that shit from you."

"Was it because of your dad?"

"Why the fuck else would I leave?"

"How old were you?"

"Old enough to say yes."

"Vince—"

"Stop it. Whatever sob story you've got in your head, just stop it. Okay? Cause the shit I did in New York? That's not what we're talking about. That was ten years ago, three thousand miles away, and about a thousand dollars a pop cheaper. So don't. I don't need it."

"Vince—"

"It's a job, E. It's a job just like you have a job. My job is just messier than yours."

E points at me accusingly. "It's not the same and you know it."

"No, I don't. I leave it when I walk out of the assignment. And then I pick it right back up when I go back. You bring your work home, E. Not me."

"Bringing home some paperwork is not the same as letting some stranger fuck you, Vince."

"Why not? You're good at paper work, I'm good at sex. We've got different skill sets."

"I can't believe you count that as a skill set."

"It is. I can make it real and I can end it like a fucking scene in a movie. I spent a long time getting good at what I do and I gave up a lot for you. Half my client-base, more than half my income, and a lot of my flexibility. I did it because I care about you. Because you come first for me, E."

"Then why didn't you stop? Why don't you stop? If you love me, how can you not have stopped?"

"And do what? I've been doing this since I was a teenager. What the hell else can I do?"

"I don't know. But I could've helped you out until you figured it out."

"So then I'd go from being everyone's whore to your whore. Yeah, that's so much better."

"Jesus, Vince, you know I don't mean it that way."

"I know that. And you need to know that the clients don't mean a fucking thing to me and that you've been the thing that makes my world keep spinning since we were kids."

E sits there, looking at me for a long time. He finishes off the scotch he has left in his glass, then turns it upside down and sets it down on the coffee table.

"You're not going to stop, are you?"

Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them away. Because I think maybe E was right earlier. Maybe this is who I am. It's not all of me, but it's enough that I can't let it go just yet. "No."

"Yeah. I didn't think you would."

"I—E, you gotta know that it’s fucking always been you."

"I know," E says. His fingers are tracing the ridges in his overturned glass. "I know you do."

"And you love me, too. But we're done, aren't we?"

"I—" His voice cracks and he licks his lips. "Yeah. Yeah, we are."

"I kind of thought so."

"Hey, Vince?"

"Yeah?"

He gets up, crosses the room, kneels down, and takes my face in both his hands. His eyes are the same blue as the sky on a clear afternoon, but they're so fucking sad that I can almost taste that sadness on his lips. They're soft and warm and there's a little scotch left that burns my tongue. But I memorize this. I burn it into me the way I didn't get to last time. I let him hold me until he finally lets go and walks away.

I hear the door to his bedroom close. It clicks shut softly but it hits me like a slam, and it's a long time before I can pick myself up off the floor.

~*~*~

Entry 114

Outside, I cry like I haven't since I was a kid. It's nauseating, hiccupping sobs muffled against the sleeve of my shirt. But it's outside the gate, in the dark, and it's private, so I don't fight it.

It takes Johnny forty-five minutes to get from his apartment to E's place, and I'm done by the time he gets there. My cuff is soaked, my eyes and nose are both red, and I feel hollow inside my chest where my lungs are supposed to be, but I'm done. I can speak and I can think, and I can fake it like the pro I am.

Problem is that my brother isn't stupid. He's not blind either, and he doesn't take me home. He takes me over to Turtle's instead, and the two of them ply me with weed until it's not that it doesn't hurt like I've lost a limb, it's more like it doesn't matter so much that it feels like I'm dying. It's kind of separate from the me that is sitting and laughing and eating pizza with Johnny and Turtle.

~*~*~

Entry 115

I wake up on Turtle's sofa two days later with Kelly sitting on the ground next to me, stroking my hair.

"Hey, handsome. How you holding up?"

"I have a headache."

"I bet." She kisses my forehead and goes to get me some Advil, and I miss E. I breathe in, I miss E, I breathe out, I miss E, but I remember him taking care of me when I had that flu bug and it's like a physical spasm of missing him.

She comes back, medicates me, then lifts me so that my head is in her lap. She says nothing—just sits there and pets me like I'm Arnold after a trip to the vet. I fall asleep like that and I don't dream.

~*~*~

Entry 116

"You want me to have him killed for you? Because Lloyd knows kung fu and he can kick that fucker's ass through his throat and out his mouth."

"It's fine, Ari."

"Yeah. 'Cause you look fine. And you know everyone wants to fuck Pagliacci the sad clown. Come on, baby, don't fuck with me. I need to know if you're ready to go back to work."

"Yeah. I am. I need to go back, Ari."

"Open bookings?"

"Everything. Anything. If the missus okays it, I'd really like to take some S&M jobs."

"You know she'd cut off both our balls first."

"Ask her."

"You ask her. I like my dick attached, thanks."

"Please, Ari, just tell her—ask her—I need this, okay? Just ask her."

"We'll discuss it. Until then, you're back on normal rotation."

"Fine."

"And fucking dandy." Ari sighs and dials his wife's extension. It makes me smile, and fuck if that doesn't hurt.

~*~*~

Entry 117

Scott asks me about E. I tell him that it was just an escort job. He doesn't push it. He's good about pushing, knows when to and when not to. It makes him a powerhouse in the entertainment industry. It also makes him a good client and a good friend.

He makes me beg and call him Daddy and for once, it is actually a good thing. It's a weird release. He fucks me hard enough that I can feel it in my molars and he pulls on my hair, hard. It's a blissful, non-thought experience. I can just check out and turn on the autopilot.

He asks me if I'm all right when we're done. I brush a kiss on his mouth, and I lie. He takes it without question and tips me in hundred dollar bills.

~*~*~

Entry 118

"Absolutely not."

"I need the money."

Mrs. Ari doesn't bat a lash or lift a perfectly sculpted brow. "No, you don't."

"Mrs. Gold, please. I just—I need it, all right? I need it and I know you have clients who would be happy to have me. I'm the best and you know it."

"No, Chase. Not like this."

"Ari said the Marxes are back in town."

She folds her arms over her chest. ‘"No. I saw you after that engagement. You were practically bleeding."

"Then you can send Rope Girl with me. She can monitor the situation."

Another negative. Fuck.

"She has better things to do with her time than babysit you, Chase. Her skills are more valuable elsewhere. And please don't call her Rope Girl to her face. Her name is Emily. Try and remember that."

"Okay, not Emily. Adam or Lloyd or someone. Anyone, okay? I need you to do this for me, ma'am. Because I can go to Faultline or Eagle L.A. and get it myself. But that doesn't make you and Ari the money it could. "

She sighs heavily and flips through a large black appointment book on her desk. She pages through this week and into the next, and stops.

"There's a private party next week. We didn't put you in it because you had limited your client list."

"Back at Passive Acts?"

"Mhm. It's a little bigger than the last one, but the holidays are coming up and people tend to need stress relief between Thanksgiving and Christmas." She mumbles something about the goyim under her breath, but I don't catch it. "Anyway, security's always tight, as I'm sure you remember." She sighs again. "I'm not going to let you get yourself hurt, Chase."

"I'm not trying to."

She doesn't look up. She just writes something into her book.

"Next Friday night. Be there by eleven so you can get ready."

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet," she mutters. "This is a test run, Chase. If I hear good things, I may let you on scene jobs. Maybe."

~*~*~

Entry 119

Turtle comes over and brings his dog with him. Arnold whines in the back of his throat, licks my hands, and sets his head in my lap.

"You need him more than I do."

"Turtle, I can't have pets here."

"Yeah, well I've got work all day and he's been depressed lately. So just keep him company until I get done, all right? As a favor to me."

"Fine, Turtle. Just so long as my landlord didn't see you come in with him."

"Nah, Vin, fat fucker's passed out on his couch. I saw him through the window. Thanks, Vince. I owe you one."

I don't have work, so I crawl back into bed and Arnold hops up on the mattress with me. I sleep better with the dog there than I have since the last time I slept next to E. And Turtle doesn't swing back by my apartment until the next morning.

~*~*~

Entry 120

I have this black shirt, this tricky, twinky, slutty thing with cut off sleeves, see-through fabric, and a tear across the stomach that makes my abs look better than they actually are. Lloyd got it for me for Christmas one year. It's the sort of thing that's just fucking perfect for something like the Passive Acts party tomorrow.

Problem is, I can't find it. I've gone through every drawer—visible and hidden—all my shelves, all my dirty laundry, under the bed, and hell, I even check the oven because I never cook, so sometimes I store shit in there. Like the really good toys I don't want my brother or Turtle to know are even in existence.

There's always a possibility I threw it in there when grabbing something to use for work or to de-stress. But it's not there. And it really is the last place I could look.

It's not that expensive. It's from like…an annual warehouse sale at Barney's or something with Lloyd's Home Ec tweaks, but I tend to average like…fifteen percent higher tips from whoever takes it off me, and I could use the money. I flop down on the couch, frustrated and tired, and there it is.

It's shimmering and draped over something white and plastic that's wedged between the couch and an end table. I have no idea how it got here. I must have taken it off after a job and just chucked it over here or something, and the cleaning lady (who is a sixty year old woman who knows to stay out of my oven on after that first time when I walked in and found her studying that green vibrating butt plug) must have missed it or something.

Snatch it up and give it a quick smell check—no B.O., no cigarette, cigar or pot smoke—and freeze when it hits me what it's lying on. It's a fax machine. It's E's fax machine because what the fuck do I need with a fax when I've got a cell and a computer? He moved it in here when I had that stomach flu and I guess…I guess he just left it here.

I run my fingers over the plastic and then jerk my hand away like I've been burned. He's left lots of shit there. He never came back for the clothes he left—I had mail them to him. He left his toothbrush and the bottle of shampoo he used is still in my shower, and I've been fine. I was fine with those.

But some stupid clunky Office Space reject sitting in my living room makes feel like all the air's been sucked out of my lungs. I haven't spoken to E in almost a month. It feels like it's only been a few hours. It feels like it's been years.

I don't even consciously realize what I'm doing when I go back to my kitchen and grab one of my best water proof plugs out of my oven. I drop the shirt on my nightstand for tomorrow and I duck into the shower to use a hand full of the last of his shampoo in my hair and to slick my cock.

The fullness of the plug is comforting and a good warm up for the abuse I'm going to take tomorrow. The smell that fills the shower steam makes the orgasm better, as close to how it was with E as anything has been since the last time he fucked me.

I throw the bottle out after I come and finish showering. I'm getting rid of it and that stupid fucking fax machine before I go to work tomorrow. I have to.

~*~*~

[Continue to Entry 121-126](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/253727.html)


	9. Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This inspired by Belle de Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the [](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/profile)[entourage_fest](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/).

**Title:** Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy  
**Entries:** 121-126 of 151  
**Status:** Complete  
**Fandom:** Entourage  
**Word Count:**~7,400  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Entourage or anyone who has ever appeared on it.  
**Pairing:** Vince/Eric, Vince/Pretty much everyone else except Turtle, Johnny, and the Golds (seriously)  
**Rating:** NC-17 for lots and lots of sex  
**Warnings:** AU, prostitution, mentions of past childhood physical abuse, BDSM, gay sex, straight sex, group sex, rape fantasy, fisting, wax play, a foot fetishist, mentions of daddy-kink, extremely brief mention of watersports. _If any of the particular warnings are squicks for you, send me a private message and I'll tell you which entry to avoid!_  
**Betas and helpers:** [](https://guest-age.livejournal.com/profile)[**guest_age**](https://guest-age.livejournal.com/), [](https://justabi.livejournal.com/profile)[**justabi**](https://justabi.livejournal.com/), [](https://allyndra.livejournal.com/profile)[**allyndra**](https://allyndra.livejournal.com/), [](https://ariadne83.livejournal.com/profile)[**ariadne83**](https://ariadne83.livejournal.com/), [](https://pesha.livejournal.com/profile)[**pesha**](https://pesha.livejournal.com/) and [](https://deepad.livejournal.com/profile)[**deepad**](https://deepad.livejournal.com/) were all completely indispensable. Thank you so much.  
**Authors Notes:** This inspired by Belle de Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the [](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/profile)[**entourage_fest**](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/).

**Summary:** Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.

[Entry 1-20](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/247618.html)   
[Entry 21-40](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/248082.html)   
[Entry 41-55](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/248741.html)   
[Entry 56-58](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/249647.html)   
[Entry 59-70](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/250583.html)   
[Entry 71-85](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/251603.html)   
[Entry 86-105](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/252374.html)   
[Entry 106-120](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/252764.html)

Entry 121

I recognize Dave from the last party of Ari's I worked and he attaches himself to my side the moment I step in. He doesn't say anything. He just gives me a nod that clearly says, "I got your back," and that's it. That's enough. It's a safety net that lets me let go of everything.

I come when called, and I'm pliant and easily moved by directing hands. I don't protest as I'm made to kneel and bend over a leather-padded punishment bench by two guys, each of them older than Ari and sporting white bands of skin where their wedding rings should be.

My knees are on another lower bench connected to the one my torso is spread over and the two men are strapping me in. Restraints circle my ankles and calves and hold me in place. When the cuffs attached to the base off the bench at the other end tighten around my wrists, it's like a switch flips and shuts off my brain.

Being bound shuts my thoughts down and turns my cock on, and it makes my nerve endings fucking dance and my ass ache. I can't think with all the doing and the feeling. For a few blessed fucking hours, I'm just a toy and toys don't have to do anything but be played with and be moved.

I gasp as one of them enters me without warning. It burns, but it's a good burn. I don't know who's fucking me and I don't care. I'm not hollow anymore. I'm not empty. There's someone else moving in me and it's so much better than being trapped alone.

The other man disappears and for a while it's just me and the man fucking me. It's a steady, thoughtless rhythm that I can drift in, but then his friend returns. I smell smoke and a drop of something wet and burning hot lands on my back. I buck against it, pushing back violently and involuntarily against the man fucking me.

He's hand smacks my thigh with an audible crack and I groan loudly. More hot liquid hits my back and spreads, cooling quickly but not before stinging bad enough to pull strangled noises out of me. I've done wax play before, but usually I'm expecting it before it happens.

It crosses lines that Mrs. Ari would be furious with me for not safe-wording out of, but I don't care. It hurts so fucking good that for the first time in ages, the hurt outside balances out the shit in my head that I can't control and I feel balanced out. Level.

The fucker thrusts in particularly deep, forcing me open and hitting my prostate at the same time as his partner pours a long stream of wax on the base of my spine. I let out a noise that's a little embarrassing, but it ends on a moan begging, "More."

"Hungry fucking whore." The man with the candle laughs. A few small drops land on my hands and arms. I whimper and the man fucking me slaps me again. He and the candle man both laugh. But the man fucking me doesn't speak. He's not the one in charge here. "You need it bad, don't you, you little bitch?"

"Yes."

"Ask us pretty and we'll give you anything you want," the candle man croons. He drops more wax, onto my ass this time, and it makes me thrust back so hard that I see stars and my wrists ache from yanking against their restraints.

"Please, please, fuck, please."

"Please what, bitch? What do you want?"

"More. Just more. Fucking please more."

"I'm done listening to you talk now, bitch." He sets the candle down on my back then jerks my hanging head up by the hair. He pries my mouth open with the fingers of his other hand before shoving his cock between my lips. He keeps hold of my hair with one hand before picking up the candle with the other.

His hips snap in time with his friend and I feel like I'm being overfilled and turned inside out with every other breath. The man holding my head keeps babbling about my mouth, my sick, dirty, beautiful mouth, and how tight my lips are, now pretty I look with his dick down my throat.

I moan and lock my jaw open as more wax hits my body, dribbling down my back and onto my sides. My body rocks as much as it can while tied and gagged like this, and my internal muscles squeeze like a fist that's only half the result of years of practice. It makes the man fucking me come, his fingers leaving deep, punishing bruises on my hips.

He smacks me once more as he pulls out then stumbles away. The candle man says something to him I miss and then pulls out of my mouth. My whole body sags for a few seconds before another splash of wax lands, on my ass this time, making me scream as some of it slides between my cheeks and burns.

His hand is back in my hair, pulling me backwards hard enough that my eyes water. "I didn't say I was done with you, did I, bitch?"

"No," I gasp, wishing that nothing ever had to be done, that this thing didn't need to end.  
  
I barely get the word out before he slam-fucks into me, his condom-covered dick sliding against the wax and his friend's lube. I let out a whimper that turns into a laugh, that turns into a sob, that breaks off in the back of my throat. I see Dave take a step forward, but I make the okay sign with my thumb and index finger. He nods once and then takes a step back.

I don't want it to stop. It can't stop yet. I can still feel things besides the pain. So it can't be done yet. I'm not ready.

~*~*~

Entry 122

Thanksgiving is a family holiday, but for the last five years, we've been doing it at Rufus's place. Turtle won't do the holiday without Kelly and she won't spend it away from her family. So we've all started trekking into the valley for it. Christmas, too.

Kelly's mom is an amazing cook. She makes mashed potatoes that could float off the plate and up into the air and a turkey that's better than drugs. Johnny's been trying to get her recipes from her for years, but she won't budge.

It's usually a pretty good time. Kelly's little brothers are fun and her dad's cool if you're not the guy fucking his daughter, and it's so normal. Almost Stepford in its normal, really.

Except for the fact that sitting this year is hell because my ass is still aching from the wax-burns of a few days ago. It has me shifting in my chair every few seconds like a kid with ADD.

Kelly asks me if I'm okay, but I shrug it off. Turtle gives her a meaningful look across the table and she drops it, passing me the stuffing instead. I don't know what all Turtle knows because I didn't tell him anything, but we've been friends long enough that it's safe to assume he's figured some stuff out.

"So where's your friend?" Rufus asks me and my whole side of the table goes quiet. "I thought he was joining us."

It's the best Rufus can do. He's old school and that doesn't really jive with me fucking men, but he had invited E to this. It was a big step, even though he couldn't put it in terms I would have and I'd been so touched by it. And now—Well—

"He couldn't make it, Daddy."

"Least he could've done was let us know. You know your mother cooked for nine."

"It's fine, Rufus," his wife says sharply. "I don't mind. More for us. I know how you like my stuffing, Johnny." She beams at Johnny before scooping another serving onto his plate. He doesn't stop chewing to thank her, just nods and applauds her by clicking his fork and knife together.

"I was supposed to tell Kelly, but things got kinda crazy. But it's all right cause the turkey's unbelievable and there's more for me," Turtle agrees awkwardly. Kelly's youngest brother parrots him and Kelly gives him a swift kick under the table.

"Ow!"

"Don't be a shit."

"Kelly, language."

"Make him leave Turtle alone."

Turtle's shoulders are up around his ears. He's been giving off high levels of stress since early this morning. "I got it Kell. It's fine."

Her lower lip starts to droop when Johnny swallows loudly then clears his throat. "Can I just say something?"

Rufus sighs. "If you have to."

"I'd just like to say how thankful I am that we're all here, together, eating this amazing meal. Ya know? That's pretty awesome."

It is. I actually smile at him and try really hard to be thankful for that. It's something, right? Better to have something than nothing. And I cling to that through the rest of dinner until I can follow Rufus and his kids into the living room while Johnny and Turtle stays to help Kelly's mom set up for desert.

Rufus and Kelly talk around me about the game. She sits next to me on the couch, hand on my knee and eyes fixed on the game, a quiet reassurance I don't really need, and her father mostly ignores me. Third and down, I notice Rufus glancing towards the kitchen every minute or so for about half an hour. He's waiting for something—pie, maybe—and I'm not sure what it is that he's waiting to see but when he does, he rises from his chair and shepherds all of us back into the oddly darkened kitchen.

I hear Kelly's sharp intake of breath as my eyes adjust to the dark, and then I see why. The table is covered in lit candles. There's a few pies on the table and there's a faint air off turkey still in the air. But mostly, there's just Turtle, on the floor closest to the living room on one knee, smiling at her. Johnny and her mother are standing on the opposite side of the table from Turtle, and Rufus has a restraining hand on each of his sons.

"Kelly."

Her hand is pressed to her mouth and her eyes are wide. "Oh my God."

Turtle holds out his hand to her. "Kelly, baby, come here."

She crosses the room to him like a ghost, wide-eyed and slow. She stops in front of him and he takes her left hand in both of his and kisses her knuckles.

"Turtle—"

"I love you, Kelly. And I wanna spend the rest of my life with you. I wanna be a part of your family, to make a family with you, and I want you to be part of my family, too."

"Turtle," she says again, and there are tears in her voice now. It makes his name crack, but she's smiling so big that the tears that are rolling down her cheeks glitter. "Oh, God."

"So, will you marry me? I know I ain't perfect, but I love you like crazy and I just wanna make you happy. If you say yes, I swear I'll bust my ass for the rest of my life making sure you are."

Kelly looks down at him for a long moment, then over in the direction I'm standing, at Rufus. I turn to look, too, and he's grinning at her. He nods his approval and she chokes on a little noise that's half a sob and half laughter.

Something in my chest aches with pride for my boy. Good for you, Turtle. Way to go through the proper channels for once. The fact that he knew to ask, that he thought to, speaks volumes about how much he's grown without me paying any attention.

"Yes, yes, I love you. God, of course, yes, you doofus," she cries and then she's kissing him. She kisses him so hard that they actually fall over backwards onto the kitchen floor, laughing. I hear the word "love" come out of both their mouths enough times to be embarrassing before they pick themselves up off the linoleum.

Only Kelly's little brothers are unmoved, but then, they're both teenagers and at the age where they're way too cool to get emotional over romantic stuff. But her mother and my brother are both a mess as he slides the ring on her finger.

"My baby girl's getting married," Rufus declares proudly, turning on the lights now that the dramatic moment is over. "I think this calls for pie." His wife agrees and seems relieved to have something to do while Kelly waves the ring out and in our direction and tires to keep kissing Turtle at the same time.

I take her hand and give it a tight squeeze before looking at it. Tiffany from the looks of it, small enough that Turtle clearly bought it himself with his own money but not cheap, and clear set in smaller gemstones of blue, sapphire, or maybe jade? It's beautiful and sturdy but not showy—just like Kelly.

I accept a slice of apple from her mother and bite into it with a sigh. I watch them, curled together and so damn happy, it's a little easier to be thankful all of a sudden. And proud. Because yeah, my boy did good.

~*~*~

Entry 123

My foot fetishist paints my toenails Christmas colors—red, green, and white. Then he puts a condom on my freshly painted big toe and fucks himself on it. I'm so surprised that it doesn't even occur to me to say anything.

It's weird. It's a first and I know for a fact I can't get very deep inside him, but I think the novelty of the whole experience is what really does it for me. It hits something deep inside and as soon as I've been paid and left the room, I laugh. I laugh so hard that my side hurts, I feel like throwing up, and there are tears on my cheeks.

It leaves me more exhausted than the best orgasm I've ever had. And when I get home, I sleep straight through the night without dreaming of E.

~*~*~

Entry 124

Kelly insists I take her Christmas shopping, even though it's nearly a month away. She's good with forethought that way. She's a planner and really logical about it all, too.

Johnny is out because he can't keep quiet about gifts and he's a glory hog, Turtle can't go with her because most of her presents are for him, and since at least some of what she's getting is rated M for Mature, she can't go with her parents, either.

She could go alone but she doesn't want to, so I'm the obvious choice. No one knows a triple X rating like me and I've got more than my fair share of experience with gift-giving and getting.

We passed on the Black Friday chaos two days ago and are going today instead. Sunday's usually pretty quiet. Lots of people are at church, the spa, or taking advantage of their only day off in a hundred-hour week.

We get the family gifts out of the way first. Kitschy photo album-type stuff for her parents, cooking stuff for Johnny. Then she drags me into La Perle, sits me down in the dressing room with her, and makes me wonder if maybe I shouldn't go back to women for awhile.

"Well?" She does a little twirl. The negligee is yellow. The color is awful on her and the cut makes her look heavier than she is. But it lifts her dark breasts up and makes them swell like scoops of ice cream.

"You can do better."

"You think?" She turns back to face the mirror, giving me a close up view of her backside. The yellow lace gets in the way of what is truly an award-winning ass. Turtle's praised it on more than one occasion and now I can really see why. It's apple-shaped and bitable.

I look away as she unhooks the bra and let's it drop to the floor in a pile with other scraps of sheer and slinky fabrics in mixed colors.

"I don't think. I know. Try the blue one."

"Yankees blue or _Congratulations It's a Boy_ blue?"

"Come on, it's a lighter, better blue than 'it's a boy' blue."

"Whatever. It's gonna give Turtle ideas."

"I thought that was the whole point."

"It is. Just not those ideas. It took a lot of work to get my ass this fabulous and I'm not ready to give up my tummy and thighs yet. You can open 'em now."

I look up from my study of the carpet and this one is much better. Its pale blue satin with a light purple piping that makes her skin look edible. It exposes the skin of her belly and there are clips for stockings that hang down the panties to mid thigh, and if I know her at all, she'll get the hose and heels to match.

"Damn."

She grins at me and preens a little so that her breasts jut forward even more, begging to be touched. "So, tell me Vince—if you had to choose between this," she waves a hand at herself, "or eight hard inches—cut—which would you pick?"

"Are you still engaged to my best friend in this hypothetical?"

"Nope."

"In this purely hypothetical situation? You, in that, in a New York minute. You could burn my eyeballs out you're so hot in that," I say, enjoying the ability to pay an honest compliment for once. "It's a good thing you told Turtle yes, or I would have to do you right here. I haven't fucked anyone in a dressing room in like…ten years." Not since Freddy moved out of LA.

"Perfect." She sighs, pulling her t-shirt over the outfit. Somehow, without flashing me, she manages to do the hooks on the bra and slide it out the sleeves. It's kind of like watching a magic trick up close. She slides her skirt on before getting the fancy panties off and her underwear back on again, without flashing me once. It's voodoo and dark magic as far as I'm concerned. "I think this is the one."

"Definitely."

"You want to look for anything?" she asks. "They've got a men's section."

I shake my head. Underwear shopping is work. This is some of my off time.

"I've got more than enough."

"I don't know, Vince. You look amazing in green. Maybe if you get those green pajamas, you could get some doors to open."

My throat goes dry as she stares at me. I don't answer. I just rise off the stool and exit the dressing room. I don't get very far before she catches me and wrangles me into the checkout line.

"Kelly-"

"I bet if you showed up at his place in those," she points to green, silk men's pajamas, "with the shirt hanging open, the pants all low and sexy on your hips, it'd open up communications with him."

"Kelly, stop."

"No. I just…I don't understand, Vince. You seemed really happy. I've never seen you like that before with anybody, and I think that you shouldn't let that go."

"You're going to be my best friend's wife, you're a good friend, and I love you. I do. But just because you're engaged and stupidly happy, that doesn't mean that you have to fix everyone else, Kel."

It keeps me from having to answer at least until we're out of the store. She leaves it be until we stop for lunch. She waits until after we've ordered, and then tears into me over the breadbasket.

"You're in love with him. So why aren't you still with him? Turtle and Drama may be too big of pussies to ask, but I'm not, and you're gonna tell me."

"Kelly, it's complicated."

She rips up a piece of French bread, giving herself a moment to think, then hits me with a fast one out of left field that comes in right over home plate.

"Is this 'cause of the whole ho thing?"

I cough on my water. "What?"

"You know, Vince, the ho thing, the fact that you sell it. Is it 'cause you won't quit? I thought he was cool with it. I mean, it's part of the deal, right?"

"I—no."

"No, he ain't cool with it?"

"Yes. No. I—he didn't know."

She blinks at me, eyes huge in her face, mouth hanging open so that I have a great view of half-chewed bread. "Are you for real?"

"Yeah, of course I am."

"How could he not know? Shit, Vince, you're not exactly smooth about it. I mean, come on. What did he think you did for a living that you worked 15 hours a week and made six figures a year? Did he never notice the fingernail marks or nothing? Cause you mighta been careful, but I saw a few red flags after you two got together." Kelly plants both her elbows on the table and stares across it, studying me with fascination. "He saw you naked all the damn time and never guessed? How stupid is he?"

"I told him I was a personal assistant."

"For who? God? The prince of Saudi Arabia? Bill Gates? He knew, Vince. He had to know. He was sleeping with you regularly—he had to know someone else had been there. "

"Helping people cheat is a whole subset of my job, Kel. I know how to not get caught. He had no idea. And then when he found out—" " My throat suddenly burns and I take a long sip of water, trying to banish the ache away. "He said I was disgusting."

"So quit. Eric's got more money than God and he loves you. He loves you silly. I bet that if you quit, he'd take you back and you could live happily ever after, the end."

I've had this fight with E; I can't have it again with Kelly. But she's so damn earnest and she cares so much that I lower my voice and lean across the table to give her an answer.

"If I'm going to be bought and sold, I'm going to do it on my terms. I'm not going to be someone's kept boy, Kelly. It's only a couple steps up from being someone's slave and I'm not doing it. It's not pretty or acceptable, what I do, but I've worked and earned everything I have. I can't love someone I'm beholden to like that."

"So you'd rather love him and miss him than try something? Get a real job. Daddy'll find you something. It's a good place to start and you can—"

"I don't know how to do anything but fuck, Kelly. It's all I'm good for. So drop it, okay? I know who and what I am, and I'm okay with it. He's not and that's why it's over."

"That's bullshit."

"That's life, Kelly. Not everyone gets to marry their best friend."

She looks sad as she twists her engagement ring around on her finger. "No. But they should."

I don't answer her. Our salads arrive and I ask her what she's thinking of doing for her dress, and she lets me change the subject.

~*~*~

Entry 125

"I've got a weird one," Ari tells me when I come to pick up my November paycheck. "But you're gonna wanna hear this."

"They're all weird, Ari. Normal people don't have the money or the inclination."

"Weird enough that if the money weren't so fucking pretty, I wouldn't have even mentioned it."

"How good?"

"Five figures for one month of appointments. You meet him for four hours, twice a week, for all of December—with an option to renew in January."

"How is that weird?"

"You have to agree sight un-fucked, and you have to show up to every single one or you don't get paid. And you follow the instructions he left for you."

"You agreed to that?"

"He's paid a deposit already. If you don't agree, I have to give it back," Air winces like the very words pain him. "But if you agree and then you miss one, then he doesn't pay the sixty percent you'd get, but I get to keep the deposit, so I need you say yes so I can keep his pretty, pretty credit card payment."

That is weird. It's not the sort of deal Ari usually goes in for. "That is kinda weird."

"After my cut, you get forty grand."

Holy fucking shit on a stick. That's un-Goddamn heard of. "Are you kidding?"

"No."

"Some guy wants to pay forty thousand dollars for 32 hours of my time. I'm not that good a lay, Ari. No one is that good a lay."

"Oh it's more than forty. Forty is just what you see after I get my cut."

Red flags go up in the back of my head faster than a shot. "What's wrong with him?"

"Look, he background checked out fine. The missus ran a thorough check and he seems sane, as sane as someone willing to pay almost seventy grand to fuck your ass can be, but still. He's not an ax murderer, and he's not violent. What else do you need to know?" Ari demands.

"I need to know what's wrong with him because it's my ass, Ari."

"Who cares what's wrong with him? He could be Quasi-fucking-modo. It doesn't matter. Just lay back, spread your thighs, and think of your bank statements. It's easy money, baby. It's almost free. Don't ask questions. Just take it. Take it, Chase."

I bite my lip for a long moment and then, almost unconsciously, I nod. It's almost much as I could make in three months. I can't say no, no matter what kind of sick, sideshow freak he is. "Yeah. Book it."

"Yeah, baby! Take care of yourself, back, sac, and crack, and I'll email you the specifics. This cat's got bank and we're going to give him the best."

~*~*~

Entry 126

The instructions are pretty specific. Go to the Peninsula Hotel. Get the key to penthouse Ken the night receptionist has waiting for me. Go in. Take off my clothes. Lay face down on the bed. Close my eyes. Wait for him to come and fuck me. That's all easy.

It's waiting for him to touch me that's difficult. I count backward from a hundred four times before a hand lands on the back of my neck. It's gentle and it's warm, and it strokes delicately over my shoulders before skimming down my spine. I shiver and heat explodes wherever the client's hands touch me. They're electric in a way that makes my breath catch and my body shiver. It's confusing and I can't tell if it's him, subtle submission, the mystery, or what, but it's turning me inside out.

They stroke the small of my back before dipping into my crack, dry and firm, pressing but not pushing. Then his lips mimic the path taken by his fingers and I gasp and try to pull myself up onto my knees so that I can push back onto his lips and tongue. But his hand on the small of my back stops me, holds me prisoner as he tongue-fucks me into a begging mess, begging to be fucked.

It feels amazing. It's the best I've ever had with a client. But there's an edge of tension spiking through the air that won't go away, no matter how good he makes me feel, because there has to be something wrong with him. There has to be something bad enough that he won't speak or let me look at him, and it makes my nerves knot in the muscles right above my cock and adds a sharp edge to my arousal.

I hear the sound of a condom wrapper tearing and know that it's the easiest money I've ever made in my life because if he can fuck me half as good as he rimmed me, it's like I'm being paid to orgasm and that is the best kind of payoff.

His hand returns to base of my spine, holding my ass still and the other lands on the back of my neck, pressing my face into the pillows and holding me captive. It makes it so that I can't move when enters me.

His hips hit my ass and I know. I know with every cell in my body who it is, and the realization sucks the breath out of my lungs and stops my heart fucking dead in my chest.

He sets a familiar rhythm, hypnotic and recognizable, and it takes every ounce of will I have to speak. But I have to.

"E?"

The man inside me says nothing, just fucks me harder in confirmation. God, I know his cock. I know how it feels inside me. And suddenly I can recognize his hands, too. And I know this bed and this room, this bed where he fucked me for the first time.

He doesn't stop fucking me. His hand's aren't bruising or painful, they're just confining, and God, I feel like I'm spinning. My stomach rolls like a wave pushing at the back of my throat and my voice breaks. "E, you have to—"

"Shut up, Vince," he says. His voice is flat and even, and I feel so nauseous that I'm gagging on it.

"E. E, get off. Please get off me. "

"Why?" His voice is brittle, angry. His words are clipped and they cut through me like knives. "I paid for this. You agreed the moment you laid down. That's how this works, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's how it works. But I'm gonna puke. So please, E, let me up. You gotta let me up."

Mercifully, he pulls out and I scramble, naked and clumsy, to the bathroom. I land on my knees with a thud and pain rocks up my legs to my hips as I heave into the bowl.

He's wearing slacks, unzipped and unbuttoned, and he kneels next to me. He doesn't touch me or rub my back like he did last time I was sick in front of him. He held me then. Now it's different. He holds out a wet washcloth and presses it into my hand as I finish.

I wipe my mouth and fall back, naked, against the side of the raised Jacuzzi bathtub. He looks so good that I want to cry. I had forgotten how good he looked. I hadn't really realized how much I missed him.

"E, what are you doing here?"

"I'm waiting for you to get done being sick so I can finish fucking you."

I flinch. Then I stare at him, hurt and confused and all I can do is shake my head. "Why? E, I don't understand."

"You wouldn't quit," he says, like he still can't believe that I would do it. Like he can't believe I was available to be here in the first place. "You wouldn't quit," E repeats with a flatness that scares me a little, "because it'd make you my whore. So I bought your time. Honest and legit, right? So now you can have it your way, and I can still have it mine."

"But, you could have yours. If you wanted me, E, you just had to say so. I'd have come back. I want to come back." I choke back an _I love you_. "You don't need to pay for me. You've never needed to."

"No, I can't. Because if you come back then—then it'd mean you were mine. Not my whore or my boy-toy or my, I don't know, my mistress. You'd have to be my lover. My partner who I don't share. Goddamn it, Vince, you'd have to be mine." He blinks and looks upwards, back towards the bed, anywhere but at me. I recognized the move from when we were very small children, and it means he was trying not to cry. "I'd be yours and you'd be mine. And you can't be, can you?"

I tuck my knees up to my chest and hug them tight. It hurts, in my throat from the stomachache and in my heart from where it is breaking.

"I want to be with you, E. Why can't you just let that be enough?"

"Because you'd have fucked whoever was here, Vince. It didn't matter who it was, he paid so for four hours after you walked in the door, your ass and mouth and all the rest of you belonged to him, and that's fine by you."

E blinks one more time and one of the tears slips past his lashes and down his face. I reach for him and he hits my hand away. Another escapes as I watch, and he wipes it with the ball of his hand and keeps talking.

"As long as he had the money, you'd spread your legs and take it, and then ask for more. It just happened to be me. But you've turned into fuck-slut for whoever's tongue and cock it was. That's why it isn't enough. But I can't let you go.'"

Without warning, he reaches out and touches my face. His hand cups my cheek and his thumb strokes over my mouth. He drags it across my lower lip and now it's my turn to slip. A tear hits his fingertips and he kneels in front of me.

"I can't let you go. I tried, Vince. I did. It's fucked up, and I tried to do the right thing and just leave it be. But I can't. So I have to do it this way. You can't be mine, so I've got to take my turn just like everyone else."

I lean into his hand because more than anything else in the universe, I want him to hang on to me. But I feel like I'm bleeding from the inside out and this is only going to make it worse for both of us. "E, you aren't everyone else."

"It's better than not touching you." The back of his other hand caresses my other cheek. His knuckles slides over my skin and it makes me shake. "Isn't it?"

Yes. God, yes. I was fucking touch-starved for E. His hands on me are like giving water to a man dying of thirst in the Mojave. "How can you ask me that?"

"If you can't stop, then just be a whore and let me take my time with you when I can. Just… let me. Take my money and let me have you. You won't give us anything else, so you owe me what you'd give anyone else. You owe me more, but that's all I'm asking for." He says it with a bitterness that slices through the gentleness of his touch.

I shake my head as best I can without dislodging his hand. "Don't punish me now for something you already knew. You know what I do, E. You knew it when you came here. I didn't make you. So if you're gonna chose to come into this, you don't get to punish me for that when we do it."

He jerks away from me and onto his feet. He glares down at me with his hands clenched at his side, his eyes bright, wet, and angry. "I gave you all of me," E spits. "I gave you all of me, and you cheated on me the entire time we were together. And you lied about it. So I think that means I can punish you if I want. I paid seventy thousand dollars to get to do whatever the fuck I want with you now."

"If I stay."

E shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest. It makes the tattoo on his chest ripple and makes him seem taller than he is. He smiles, the first one I've seen on his lips since this mess started, and it's not a good smile. It's smug, superior, and cocky as hell, and just a little bit mean. "Oh, you're going to stay."

"The fuck I am."

"If you're not going to stay, and get back in bed with me," he takes a few steps back and clears the way out of the bathroom, "go. Go now. Get your clothes on and leave. I dare—hell, I double dog dare you. Go."

I rise on shaky legs and walk out of the bathroom, stopping to take a few mouthfuls of the complimentary mouthwash and spit it out in the sink. And I get as far as finding my boxers, sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed. The bed E and I first made love in. The bed I've slept in with him so many nights, safe and comfortable. I don't even pick them up off the floor.

I drop onto bed, jostling the packets of condoms still sitting on the duvet beside me. Defeated, I look over at the bathroom. He's standing, leaned against the doorjamb, watching me. I sigh and rub the back of my neck, and even across the room, I can see him smile.

He crosses the room in a flash, pushing me back on the bed and kissing me at the same time. He doesn't lift up or pull away when he grabs a condom. He's still kissing me as he covers his dick and lifts one of my legs up over his shoulders.

"Beg," he breathes into my mouth. "Beg for me, Vince."

It's not a surprising request. Hundreds of clients have asked me for that very thing. But that order from them has never undone me like it does coming from E.

I'm incoherent. I'm pathetic. It's just a bunch of "please's" and "fucks" and "E's" in a jumbled unintelligible mess of sound. Because of course I want him. He's all I've ever wanted.

"Anything for you, Vince" he replies and God, fuck, he pushes into me with no prep but the lube on the lubricated condom. The burn is harsh, but combined with the slam against my prostate, it sends my eyes rolling back into my head so all I can see is black and a little bit of the ceiling tiles.

He's never fucked me like this before. It's all force and strength and his dick slamming inside me. But he's not touching me anywhere else. It's difficult to wedge my hand between our bodies because every thrust of his hips rocks us backwards, but once my fingers wrap around my cock, its one, two, three, fucking Fourth of July fireworks behind my eyelids.

It wrings me out and exhausts me, but he doesn't stop. And I'm left with that raw, over-sensitized feeling as he keeps fucking me. He holds himself up with one arm and his other hand is bruising my waist as he slams back and forth, head bent, eyes shut, sweat shining on his forehead and neck from the light coming from the bathroom.

He grunts like he's in pain and I lift the leg not over his shoulder off the bed and wrap it around his waist. I wipe the come off my hands on the duvet and then bring them to his shoulders, sliding through the sweat before wrapping my arms around his neck.

E drops his head into the crook of my neck and I bend one of my arms so that I can stroke his hair. His grunt turns into a sobbing sound that makes my chest ache and I kiss the bits of him I can reach—his temple, his ear, the side of his forehead.

"I've got you, E. I've got you."

The hand on my hip digs so hard that I gasp in pain. E rams into me a half of a dozen more times, hard enough to make me wince and clench my teeth against the pain, before he cries out my name and collapses on top of me, panting and limp with his head buried in my shoulder.

After a few moments, his breath evens out, but there's wetness on my shoulder, and God. God, I can't deal with E crying. I can't. I don't know how to deal with the fact that I hurt him that much.

The best I can come up with is, "It's okay." I say it while I run my fingers through his hair and rub his back, and I punctuate it by pressing my lips to his temple. But it's really not sufficient.

"It's not. Fuck, Vince's it's not okay. God, what I just did. How could I—"

"It is. It's okay, I swear to God, E. It's better than okay. It's good. I've missed you so much. I wanted you. I always want you. I came like a freight train and I loved holding you through yours. It's okay, E. It's good."

"It's not. It's not. This is so many kinds of not fucking okay, Vince. Because I love you so fucking much and I'm reduced to _this_ to be inside you."

He says _this_ like it's the dirtiest word on earth. This being what I do, what I've made of my life, the money he paid Ari for the four hours in this hotel room. For the first time, _this_ feels dirty to me, too.

And I don't want him to think that's why I stayed—for the money. He can keep his fucking money. I know he won't, but fuck, I want him to. Because I stayed because I missed having him inside of me so much that there have been times over the last month where it physically ached without him.

"You don't have to pay for something I'm giving you freely. You've got me, E. You've got my heart and my body any time. You don't have to buy me."

"Yeah, yeah I do. If I want you, I have to."

"No you don't. I love making love to you, E. It's not a job. It's not work. It's pleasure and it makes me happy. It makes me feel close to you, like you're part of me. No one else does that to me."

He looks up finally, eyes red and face wet. "I can't live with the alternative that you can't give this up to be with me. So if I can't have you, I have to be part of what you can't give up. I have to do this. So don't make it harder for me. Okay? If you love me at all, do me that favor."

"All right, E."

"All right," he echoes on a sad sigh. Then, with a careful consideration that was missing during the sex, he pulls out of me and lies down beside me. "You should probably go."

"No." I glance at the clock and swallow hard. If he wants it this way, then the least I can do is give it to him. I'm good at that, giving people what they need. "You've got three more hours left."

He says nothing. He just reaches out and pulls me to him, so that my head is resting on his shoulder. Together, we're suddenly out of proportion—my legs hang down off the bed because I'm so much taller than him. But it feels closer to normal and home than anything has since the night we ended.

But it's so far from normal that it's in another universe. It's broken and bizarre that E is desperate enough to go after this the way he is, to shell out for the illusion of acceptance of my world and my life. It's crazy that I'm desperate enough to take what I can get—him any way I can have him for as long as he'll let me. And we love each other too much to do the right thing, the smart thing, and just walk the fuck away from each other.

So, I need to belt in and hang on. Because I don't think what's coming will be easy. But for now, E's holding me, carding absently through my hair, while I trace his tattoo over and over again with my fingertips. It's quiet and familiar, and right now it's enough for both of us.

~*~*~

[Continue to Entry 127-140](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/254269.html#cutid1)


	10. Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This inspired by Belle de Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the [](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/profile)[entourage_fest](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/).

**Title:** Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy  
**Entries:** 127-140 of 151  
**Status:** Complete  
**Fandom:** Entourage  
**Word Count:**~4,800  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Entourage or anyone who has ever appeared on it.  
**Pairing:** Vince/Eric, Vince/Pretty much everyone else except Turtle, Johnny, and the Golds (seriously)  
**Rating:** NC-17 for lots and lots of sex  
**Warnings:** AU, prostitution, mentions of past childhood physical abuse, BDSM, gay sex, straight sex, group sex, rape fantasy, fisting, wax play, a foot fetishist, mentions of daddy-kink, extremely brief mention of watersports. _If any of the particular warnings are squicks for you, send me a private message and I'll tell you which entry to avoid!_  
**Betas and helpers:** [](https://guest-age.livejournal.com/profile)[**guest_age**](https://guest-age.livejournal.com/), [](https://justabi.livejournal.com/profile)[**justabi**](https://justabi.livejournal.com/), [](https://allyndra.livejournal.com/profile)[**allyndra**](https://allyndra.livejournal.com/), [](https://ariadne83.livejournal.com/profile)[**ariadne83**](https://ariadne83.livejournal.com/), [](https://pesha.livejournal.com/profile)[**pesha**](https://pesha.livejournal.com/) and [](https://deepad.livejournal.com/profile)[**deepad**](https://deepad.livejournal.com/) were all completely indispensable. Thank you so much.  
**Authors Notes:** This inspired by Belle de Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete and I will, baring any unforeseen circumstances, be posting a segment a day until the end of the [](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/profile)[**entourage_fest**](https://entourage-fest.livejournal.com/).

**Summary:** Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.

[Entry 1-20](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/247618.html)   
[Entry 21-40](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/248082.html)   
[Entry 41-55](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/248741.html)   
[Entry 56-58](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/249647.html)   
[Entry 59-70](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/250583.html)   
[Entry 71-85](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/251603.html)   
[Entry 86-105](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/252374.html)   
[Entry 106-120](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/252764.html)   
[Entry 121-126](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/253727.html)

Entry 127

I call Ari afterwards and I ask him to rework the deal. I don't know if I can keep it up with E like this, but if I'm going to try, I need some things.

"What things? Chase, baby, You don't give orders to a client, they give them to you."

"Just ask him, all right? If he won't agree, I already fucked him, so you keep your deposit and all you're losing is January, which you don't even have yet."

"Fine. What do you want?"

"I want them to be overnight jobs." I can pretend we're something else if I stay the night. If I get to sleep with E, hold him and be held by him, then I can pretend that we're something neither of us can let us be. And I can have the boyfriend experience for myself.

Ari looks at me like I've grown a second head. "I can't ask for more money for that. He's already playing twice what you'd make if he were paying your regular fee."

"I know. But it has to be overnights, or I can't do it."

"All right. Anything else, your highness?"

"He's not allowed to pay me in cash. Not ever."

"What? You know it doesn't show up on your taxes if he pays the other twenty grand in cash. Why would you do that to yourself? The U.S. government doesn't deserve seven percent of the money you make on your back when those old, wrinkly, hypocritical, Conservative fuckwads are finger-fucking your pretty ass with one hand and writing legislation against what we do with the other."

"Ari, I'm not playing around here."  
  
"Fine. I'll call the little leprechaun motherfucker and make sure he mails in his check, you diva primadonna cockmunch," Ari snaps. But he has Lloyd make a note anyway.

~*~*~

Entry 129

Ari comes back with a reneg. Overnights, upped to three times a week, for an even ninety. Ninety fucking thousand. The number makes my head spin. It's seventy five hundred a night. The fact that E would fork over that kind of money for me is just…it's literally mind-boggling. My mind is boggled.

But then, E runs Warner Bros. I guess he can afford me.

No, of course he can afford me. He can more than afford me. He can afford to overpay by half.

It makes me feel cheap like I haven't since I was giving ten dollar blowjobs and tricking out my ass for twenty bucks a fuck in the Village.

But there are deep bruises on my hip that make me shiver every time my skin rubs them wrong that tell the obvious—that I can't stay away from him.

~*~*~

Entry 130

"When did you start?" E asks me. It's different this time, the question. It's not angry and it's not blaming—it's just curious. Like he's trying to understand. And wrapped up in thousand thread count cotton sheets in our room in the Peninsula, there's something almost sweet about the question.

"I was nineteen. I went home with this hot guy in his late thirties where we had unbelievable, toe-curling, consensual sex and just…he paid me when I left. Turtle and I were sleeping on Johnny's floor and living on Top Ramen. So I took it. And a couple months later, instead of a hundred dollars a fuck, I was charging five hundred to a thousand for just a blowjob and…well, suddenly I had a life that didn't involve Ramen."

"What about acting? You were going to be a star, Vince."

"It wasn't happening. It wasn't going to happen. And we were starving while we waited. So, I took care of it. And I was good, E. I'm the best."

"And that was the first time?"

"No. But that's when I started making real money."

"Vince—"

I sigh and roll over closer to him, planting my chin on his shoulder. "You don't want to talk about New York. New York is the past and the past sucks. The present is you and me and an economy-sized box of condoms and jumbo bottle of lube, and twelve hours until checkout. "

He strokes my hair off my forehead and shakes his head. "I do want to talk about it."

"E…"

"Please, Vince. Talk to me." The shitty thing about him buying my time—besides the fact that well, you know he's paying for it, period—is that the professional in me will kick in every now and then, and I won't be able to say no. What the client wants, the client gets. After all, the customer is always right.

"I was sixteen. It wasn't good, but it was better than staying in Queens and letting the old man break my face open. It was what it was E. Leave it be."

"Vince, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, and that's the problem. I don't want you to be sorry, E. It's not your fault. I knew what I was doing."

He pushes a few curls back and shakes his head. "Why don't I believe you?"

"I…E, it's ugly okay? It's not something I'm happy about, but I'm not ashamed, and I'm not going to let you…let you…I don't know, judge and pity me."

"I don't."

"You do. You're thinking about the time Pop pushed me down the stairs and broke my arm. Or the time he cracked my head on the bureau and I ended up in a coma for two days. You're wondering how much worse it got if I'd let some creeper fuck me in an alley for a twenty. And you're pitying me."

"Jesus," he whispers. And I can see in his eyes that I'm right.

"I got tired of being afraid, it's that simple. I figured if I was going to get killed, I wasn't going to let it happen because of that hateful old fuck, and I left. And I don't regret a single second. And if I had to choose right now between going back to tricking in the Village or his house with him like he was when I was sixteen, it's no fucking question."

"Vince, if I had known," he mumbles. Then he wraps one of his arms around my waist and gives me a tight hug.  
  
I sigh and roll away from him. "You couldn't have done anything about it, anyway. I told you. I told you that you didn't want to know. The past is bullshit E. Why do you want to dig it up?"

"Because it helps me understand."

"What's to understand? I am what I am. I can't change and I'm not going to, so you don't need to psychoanalyze me when could be doing something fun like blowing each other or using that ridonkulous tub."

"I'm just trying to get why you can't stop."

"And do you?"

He shrugs. "A little more, yeah. I mean, you clawed your way out to take care of yourself. I can see how you wouldn't be able to lose that. I think that you should see that quitting this isn't the same as going back to your dad's, but I can see the connect." He squeezes me again.

I push myself up on my elbow and stare at him. I really didn't expect him to get it. It kind of blows the top of my head off that he hit the nail right on the head. "Yeah. Jesus, E, you sure moviemaking's the job for you? You'd make a good shrink."

"I can see it, not fix it. And moviemaking's not my job. Corporate management is. John’s been grooming me to be his replacement when he retires since the day we met. The studio head position at Warner Brothers is just a test to prove to him I can run a company on my own. I've got to pass it before I can move forward in the company. "

"Studio head's just a step? Jesus, E. That's…that's insane."

"No crazier than what you do, and really not the point here. I just…Vince, I wish that you didn't feel this way. I want you could see that what I want with you isn't like that."

‘"E, isn't this good?" I ask, dropping down so that my body is pressed against his. "It's not perfect, but right now, here with me, doesn't it feel good? Why do you want to drag this moment through shit?"

He buries his hand in my hair and rubs his fingers in little circular motions on my scalp. It makes me want to start purring. "It's good."

"Then let it be. Please."

"I just keep thinking that you could've come and stayed with me when things were bad. Maybe if Ma hadn't moved, I could've taken care of you and we wouldn't be in this mess."

"I don't play the what-if game, E. You shouldn't, either. It's just asking for trouble."

"I know, but—"

I kiss him and roll on top of him, grinding against him. It's the only thing I can think to do to stop him, and it has to stop. It has to. Because we've broken each other's hearts enough for one night. We don't need to go breaking things more.

~*~*~

Entry 131

Christmas time in LA is weird, mostly because it doesn't actually get cold. Yeah, you need a jacket when you leave the house, but compared to New York? It's balmy spring weather.

It throws off the rhythm, makes the sound of Christmas carols—and occasionally the Adam Sandler "Hannukah Song" —in stores and on the radio feel out of place and wrong. Granted, the fact that it starts before November ends would throw me off no matter where I was, but the California weather makes it worse.

On the other hand? It puts a spring in Johnny's step. Johnny Drama's a Christmas guy, though. Always has been, even when I was little. Out of everyone in the family, he was the guy who always had presents for everybody, no matter how strapped for cash he was or which of my brothers he was fighting with that week. He was the one who made sure we always pulled the plastic tree out of storage and decorated it with the care of Michelangelo painting the freaking Sistine Chapel.

When we were kids, he was kind of sneaky about it. He'd plan six months in advance, saving and scheming so we all got what he wanted, because I think he likes being the hero. When she was ten, he got our little sister Theresa this necklace she spent the whole year swooning over that must've cost him at least a month's salary. Last time she emailed me a picture of her and her kids, she was still wearing it.

Terri's still in New York, but she married up—a doctor—and lives in Brooklyn. After they got married, he paid for her to go back to school, and she's the only one of us to've finished college. How proud everyone is of her is one of the only things I can actually talk to Ma about civilly. I don't give a flying fuck so long as she's happy, and she seems like she is.

Aside from Johnny, she's the only one in my family I can talk to without feeling the need to get blind drunk during or after, and only then, around the holidays. She sends me Christmas cards and holiday cartoons from websites her kids find and forward to her.

I don't always answer. Terri was the only one left at home when shit got bad. She was eighteen months younger than me, and she talked Dad into taking her to the movies so I could get a little of my shit out of the house, then kissed me goodbye on her way out the door. We didn't really talk to each other again for almost ten years.

It's hard to think of what to say to her, knowing how we left it. And I didn't go to her wedding. Johnny took my present to her for me. The old man was still alive and I just couldn't.

She keeps asking me to come visit. I tell her that she should just come out to L.A.—winter's warmer here, like I said. When the kids are a little older, she says, and I don't blame her. She's got a two-year old, a five-year old, and a seven-year old. L.A.'s not really fun until you get old enough to like movies.

I buy her kids some stuffed fish from the Disney Store in Beverly Hills out of that Nemo movie and I give them to Johnny to send. Christmas is his thing. And it's only two days into December and he's already pestering me about Christmas Eve.

~*~*~

Entry 132

RJ wants me to be Hulk this time. The green edible body paint goes on easy, but it makes my chest ache because it makes me think of Halloween and E, and how our appointment tomorrow is nothing like how it used to be.

He pays me in cash, but he also tends to give me comics based on whom I'm playing that day. I don't always read the more obscure stuff, but I kind of feel for the Hulk. He's this big green monster and he's this regular smart guy, and they're both part of him, but everyone hates him for it. It sucks, and it's not fair. I tell RJ so and he grins at me and adjusts his glasses.

"You're well on your way, Chase. I'll make a fan of you yet."

I'm not sure about that, but he kisses me and I don't have a chance to argue.

~*~*~

Entry 133

"I'm going to Boston for Christmas."

"Yeah?"

E nods. My head rests on his chest. "Grandma Gallagher, she's kind of big on Christmas and I haven't seen my ma since last year so, I figure, I owe her a trip."

"That's nice. It's good you're close with your mom, E."

I mean it. I miss Ma sometimes. A lot, actually. But the one time I tried…I don't need to be around people who look at me the way she does.

"Hey do you…" he starts, and stops. He was going to invite me to come with him. I can feel it in the way his chest hitches under my head.

It's so easy to forget what this is. That's kind of the whole point, to be able to forget how broken we are. But going home with him? It crosses a line we can't even look at right now.

"Johnny's crazy about Christmas. He drags everyone to his condo and makes a big thing of it. He'd gut me if I missed it."

"He always was kind of a Christmas nut. Didn't he steal decorations out of Macy's one year?"

"Yeah. I still don't know how he got 'em out the door."

E laughs and rubs the back of my neck. "He robbing Barney's this year?"

"I don't thinks so. Now that he's working, he's probably going to go through more legitimate means."

"Well, you should take pictures. Let me know if he does something like get live reindeer in the apartment."

"Any livestock, and I promise I'll let you know." I press my lips to his tattoo and a few seconds later, he's tugging me up by the hair. I'll never get tired of kissing him. Never.

~*~*~

Entry 134

I get another booking with Billy, and this time, I just fucking take it. I make sure that Ari is clear that this is an escort client and not a full-service fuck, and then I just fucking sigh and agree. I've been avoiding him and his continued stalking for almost a month and enough is e-fucking-nough. At least this way, I make a profit off of dealing with him.

"Vince," he says, reaching out for me when I walk in the door, and I smack it away.

"You paid for my time, Billy. You've got," I check my watch. Cartier. A gift from a grateful client a couple years back. "Fifty-eight minutes."

"You know what I wanna do with it."

"Yeah, you know, I really don't care what you want anymore, Billy."

"Vince," he gives me big sad eyes and for a split second, I see the guy I used to fuck. The tortured artist with the sharp teeth and the hot hands. It's as sexy as it used to be, but it's empty.

"What?"

"I know you're angry still. But we can be good together. I'd be good for you. I could make you happy."

That floors me. It takes me a minute to recover and when I do, I'm fucking angry as hell.

"You fucked my happiness, Billy. I was happy with E. I was happy like I've never been in my miserable life, and you wrecked it. I was loved, Goddamn it."

Billy tilts his head like a confused kid. His eyes get big and everything. And then he speaks, real gentle, like I'm the kid. "Vinny, if he don't love you like you are, then it ain't real."

I hit him. I haven't punched anyone since I stopped tricking in the Village. It hurts in my knuckles and all the way up my shoulder but fuck it, it feels good, too.

The pain spikes my nerves and makes me hot everywhere and Goddamn it, I'm hard. I've never been that kind of guy, but there you go. Learn something new every fucking day, don't you?

"Go fuck yourself," I curse, shaking my hand out and trying to get that quick, rising arousal to go the fuck away.

Billy grins at me with bleeding lips. "I want ya anyway, Vinny." He licks the blood off with the agile tongue I've had inside me. I swallow hard and he smiles with all his teeth, tinted red and carnivorous.

"I don't care what you want."

"Yeah, you do. You care, or you wouldn't be here. You'd have passed me off to that shit-fuck kid again. Hooking and punching, I still want you."

He reaches out and touches my face. I flinch because Jesus, it turns me on and makes me feel like hitting him again at the same time. He runs his thumb over my lower lip and almost against my will, my lips part just the slightest bit.

"Just like fucking this, I'll always want you, Vinny. It's why I'll always be better than that fucking suit."

"He's not a suit, you son of a bitch," I hiss, and then I grab him by the back of the neck and pull his face to mine. It's not a kiss. There's too much violence and teeth for it to be a kiss. It's a clash of lips and tongue and the taste of blood.

I push him to the floor and for a moment there, it's old times. Too fucking desperate to go the extra foot to the bed. But everything's flipped, and I'm on top of Billy for once. He's got a condom in his pockets, of course he does, and I fuck him hard with nothing but spit and the lube on the condom to ease things because I'm angry and I hate him, and I fucking want him.

"Vinny, Vinny, Vinny," he pants over and over again.

"That's not my fucking name," I growl, slamming into him hard enough that my back is starting to hurt. "You don't call me that. I'm Chase. Fucking call me that here."

He comes on a loud curse and I follow seconds later. It's just like everything else with Billy, harsh and sudden. I feel tired, sick, and sore when I'm done.

"Hour's up," I say, climbing to my feet and pulling my clothes back on.

"Vince…" He reaches for me as I go and I step away from him.

"We're done, Billy."

"No we ain't. Vince—"

"Yes, Billy, we are. You said your piece, you got your farewell fuck, and now it's over. Don't contact me again, you understand me? Stay the fuck away from me or I'll make you wish to Christ you had."

It's not an empty threat and I think Billy knows it. E isn't the only one in town with pull. I've fucked my way through the industry, privately and professionally, and my silence and skills have gotten me a lot of unused favors over the years.

He looks at me, wild eyes burning. Then he nods. "It wasn't supposed to go this way."

"Story of my life."

He laughs at that, like it's funny or something. "Everybody's story. If you're sure, you take care of yourself, Vince."

It cracks something in me. I'm not sure what. But I manage to give him a nod.

"You too, Billy." I mean it when I say it. It makes walking out the door that much easier.

~*~*~

Entry 135

Steve comments on the bruises on my hips. I tell him that I was cleaning my apartment and walked into some open cabinet doors.

He "hmms" and asks me if I need help. I want to laugh because yeah, I need help. Just not the kind Steve Parles could give me.

"Let me know if you need anything, Chase. Anything at all."

I nod and go back to sucking his cock.

~*~*~

Entry 136

"Do you want to do gifts?" I ask.

E and I are sitting, facing each other, in the Jacuzzi-sized bathtub in bathroom of the suite we always rent.

"Like for Christmas?"

I flick some bubbles at him. The bubbles were his idea. They smell like flowers. He's such a fucking chick about some shit. Granted, we're both a little stoned (Turtle hooked me up with some really primo shit this afternoon), but still…

"Yeah. It's Jesus' birthday and since he's not here to get a present…"

"Like actual gifts or creative sex?" he asks with a small smile.

"We're already pretty creative."

"Nothing over 100 dollars," E says. He's all about limits. We both are. Limits and rules make this, whatever the hell this is, is work.

"Okay. My salary can't really afford much more anyway," I say with a cheeky grin.

E's face falls like a lead balloon. "Okay."

I slide my foot up his leg and he comes back to me. He catches my ankle and pulls me forward, splashing water onto the floor.

Later, when we get out of the tub, E fucks me spooned up behind me. His arm wraps around me and his fingers tangle with mine on my chest. His breathing is hitched and not like good, desperate, sex panting.

It's something else, deep inhalations through his nose, his face buried in my shoulder. Wet. And not from the shower.

"E," I murmur, reaching back with my free hand.

He chokes out my name, and fuck. Fuck. I am too high for all these feelings. I can't process them right because I should not be crying. I shouldn't be, and neither should he.

This is all fucked up, and I am not this person. I spent ten years getting away from this person to the point where I don't even know who he is. But he's not me.

"Love you, E," I gasp when I come and it occurs to me, through the haze of endorphins and TCH, that it's the first time I've said it to him this way. On purpose. With intent and honesty and shit behind it. And I can't deal with that on top of the tears, on my face and on my shoulders and back.

He comes less than second behind me, squeezing my hand so hard it hurts, his forehead pressed tight against the back of my neck. Then he pulls out and rolls out of bed. I hear the bathroom door shut with a soft bang followed by the click of the lock.

I wipe my face and get dressed. I fix my hair in the mirror and stare at my reflection. I look tired, thinner. I don't recognize myself and it's getting harder to pretend.

I wait for him to come out for an hour, and then I leave. I don't sleep that night.

~*~*~

Entry 137

I go out and I pick up a girl. She's the professional type, long black hair and thick lips under a suit skirt and blouse that she clearly wore from the office straight to Prey.

She says her name's Amanda and I lie about my name. I don't want to be me right now. Any version of me.

She sips a martini and regards me critically. Then says, "You're very attractive. Want to have sex?"

Direct, to the point, and honest. I know fags all over West Hollywood who would be jealous of her style. I nod and she takes me by the hand to one of the couches in the VIP section.

She has a condom. Of course she does. A woman like Amanda who will ask flat out for a fuck would never go anywhere without her own protection. She unzips my fly, covers me, and lowers herself onto my cock, pulling her thong to the side.

It's been a while since I fucked a girl. It's still good, still hot. Amanda is good. Very good. And she takes me home with her, which is a relief because I haven't been feeling like going back to my apartment lately.

"I'm only going to fuck you one time," she says, throwing her car into drive.

"Works for me. But didn't we already have one time?"

"That one time doesn't end until you go home."

I slide my hand up her thigh and dip my fingers inside. She's still wet and she gasps a little as my knuckles brush her clit. Her fingers tighten on the steering wheel. "Like I said, works for me."

~*~*~

Entry 138

Amanda is beautiful. She really is. And in another life, maybe I could've found something more with her. But as it is, I find more than I deserve when she gives me a really solid piece of advice.

We're in her house, which is fucking ridiculous. We're in the shower—an obnoxiously luxurious number with four showerheads—and I ask her how she got all this since she's no more than five years older than me. Ten, tops.

She's an agent. A great one, apparently, if the fact that her bathroom is bigger than my bedroom is any indication. But the key, she says is, "Do what you need to do for yourself. Everything else has to follow that, because if you can't take care of yourself, you can't really do anything."

Like I said. Good advice.

~*~*~

Entry 139

> from: kellys_sneaks@yahoo.com  
to: boyfromqueens@gmail.com  
date: Dec 12, 2009 at 7:57 PM  
subject: Merry Christmas
> 
> Vince,
> 
> Baby brother finally loaded his pictures from his digital camera onto the family computer. I thought you might want these. They came out really good, don't you think?
> 
> Love you.
> 
> Kelly

In the attachment is the answer. All it needs is a frame, and that shouldn't cost more than ten, fifteen bucks. I save the file to a flash drive and head to the local photo place.

Sometimes—not often, but sometimes—things are easy.

~*~*~

Entry 140

Scott throws a holiday party for his friends. It's me and a bunch of other guys from Gold Standard—young guys, guys who weren't here last year. They're all over eighteen, but less than a handful are over twenty-five.

For the crowd he's having over, the "waiters" he's hired are perfect. And that we're all in these little red and white Santa-esque G-strings really just sets the tone. But it's a balmy seventy-three out so it's not too bad, and for the first time, I'm grateful for L.A. winters. This same party in New York would be hell.

"Be good," Scott tells all of us. "Be friendly." Later, but before the guests arrive, he pulls me aside. He runs his fingers over my bare shoulders. "Not all my friends share my…specific tastes. And besides, I've talked you up to a few people."

He introduces me to those "few people" over the course of the night. An up-and-coming agent with a short, fat dick who I suck off behind the bar. A record exec who fucks me in the bathroom, bent over the sink. A studio mogul who probably works with E, who I jerk off until he comes thick and sticky on my face out in Scott's back yard.

I snag a Santa hat from one of the party goers early on and I keep the tips they palm me tucked inside. It covers my utilities for December and leaves me with enough to buy a new computer.

~*~*~

[Continue to Entry 141-151](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/255273.html)


	11. Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This inspired by Belle de Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete, and I will be posting a coda/epilogue tomorrow.

**Title:** Illicit Exploits of an LA Rentboy  
**Entries:** 141-151 of 151  
**Status:** Complete  
**Fandom:** Entourage  
**Word Count:**~4,800  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Entourage or anyone who has ever appeared on it.  
**Pairing:** Vince/Eric, Vince/Pretty much everyone else except Turtle, Johnny, and the Golds (seriously)  
**Rating:** NC-17 for lots and lots of sex  
**Warnings:** AU, prostitution, mentions of past childhood physical abuse, BDSM, gay sex, straight sex, group sex, rape fantasy, fisting, wax play, a foot fetishist, mentions of daddy-kink, extremely brief mention of watersports. _If any of the particular warnings are squicks for you, send me a private message and I'll tell you which entry to avoid!_  
**Betas and helpers:** [](https://guest-age.livejournal.com/profile)[**guest_age**](https://guest-age.livejournal.com/), [](https://justabi.livejournal.com/profile)[**justabi**](https://justabi.livejournal.com/), [](https://allyndra.livejournal.com/profile)[**allyndra**](https://allyndra.livejournal.com/), [](https://ariadne83.livejournal.com/profile)[**ariadne83**](https://ariadne83.livejournal.com/), [](https://pesha.livejournal.com/profile)[**pesha**](https://pesha.livejournal.com/) and [](https://deepad.livejournal.com/profile)[**deepad**](https://deepad.livejournal.com/) were all completely indispensable. Thank you so much.  
**Authors Notes:** This inspired by Belle de Jour's blog/books/TV series but doesnt crossover in anyway. But it is a hookerfic so I know there are a lot of warnings but I hope you guys will give it a try anyway. Minor characters from canon have links to their pictures if you need a reminder. This fic is complete, and I will be posting a coda/epilogue tomorrow.

**Summary:** Entries from the private journal of Vincent Chase, a high paid male escort living in Los Angeles.

[Entry 1-20](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/247618.html)   
[Entry 21-40](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/248082.html)   
[Entry 41-55](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/248741.html)   
[Entry 56-58](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/249647.html)   
[Entry 59-70](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/250583.html)   
[Entry 71-85](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/251603.html)   
[Entry 86-105](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/252374.html)   
[Entry 106-120](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/252764.html)   
[Entry 121-126](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/253727.html)   
[Entry 127-140](http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/254269.html)

Entry 141

I'm at lunch with Johnny when my phone rings. It's an unlisted number, which means it could be work. I duck away from the table and answer in a quiet corner.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Sunshine."

It's amazing what his voice does to me. Even after E and Billy and fucking everything. I smile and sink against the wall in sheer, physical relief. I don't have to be anyone but myself with him. No judgment, no recrimination, no expectations.

"Freddy."

"The one and only. How are you, love?"

"I'm…" I can't think of an honest answer that won't run up his phone bill from wherever he is. "I am hanging in there." I laugh.

"I insist you give me all the details of whatever it is you're hanging from. But I've got to go in about five minutes. Listen, Vince, I just wanted to call and let you know I'll be in L.A. for Boxing Day through New Year's."

"Boxing Day's the day after Christmas, right?"

There's an amused sigh. "Americans," he says fondly. "Let me know when you're free and I'll clear my schedule."

"I'm free as soon as you get here."

"Brilliant. I've got Christmas presents for you, beautiful boy. I'll call you as soon as I get in."

"Awesome."

"Take care of yourself until then, Vince. Ciao, lovely."

I smile and fold my phone closed. I pocket it as I walk back to Johnny.

"What're you so happy about, bro?"

"Nothing, Johnny. Friend's coming into town for Christmas is all."

Johnny considers that for a second and then asks the really important question. "Do I need to get a bigger ham?"

~*~*~

Entry 142

E's got a red-eye out of LAX on the 23rd, so we meet up two days before. There's something in the air between us, but I don't know what it is. I can't put my finger on it.

We're on the bed in our underwear, a bottle of Cristal between us. It's comfortable. It's easy. It's the grown up version of hanging out in Turtle's basement.

We're talking about old times. PS 154, the girls we liked in high school, and the shit we used to get up to.

"Remember when I tried out for the basketball team in third grade?"

"No, but I know you were shit at it. You've never been good at basketball, Vince."

"Yeah and you never let it go. You got all up in my face, 'Hey douchebag, you're too pretty for basketball, go try a school play!' I joined the Drama Club like, two weeks later."

E rolls the mouth of the bottle between his fingers. "I said that? Really?"

"Yeah."

"I was just an asshole kid, I guess."

"And a lot taller, too."

Eric laughs, then shakes his head. "I wish you hadn't given up on it. You were great in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest."

"I was shit."

"No, you weren't. You were fucking great as Billy."

"Yeah well, I still can't believe you managed to keep playing baseball all the way up through college."

"Yeah well, the players in Boston weren't as good as the guys in Queens. I got lucky."

Ain't that the fucking truth. E won the life lottery once he got out of New York. And he deserves better than this. He deserves someone like Sloan, only a little taller and with a dick, who can be everything he wants. Bottom line, he deserves better than me.

"Speaking of lucky, do you want to do gifts now?"

I grin at him. "Who the hell says no to presents? Me first though, okay?"

"Ok. Hit me."

I lean backwards over the side of the bed and grab my bag. Years of experience have taught me it's better not to leave any hotel you stay in for more than six hours in the same clothes you arrived in. You owe the staff who are going to clean the sheets you just stained with come, lube, and various other sex extras the illusion of class.

It only takes me a second to find it. Johnny helped me wrap it so the corners are obsessive-compulsive levels of neat. The paper is a holiday-neutral gold and white snowflake pattern.

"Not everyone celebrates Christmas, bro. Gotta look out for my multi-ethnic peeps," Johnny had declared.

I had blinked at him. "Peeps?"

He'd shoved the gift into my hands and kicked me out of his apartment. All the while yelling at me, asking what the fuck I was doing still torturing myself with seeing E. I didn't answer—I was way too busy running from Johnny the Christmas Nazi.

I pass it over and E opens it like my mom. He's careful with the edges—my mom was always talking about reusing the paper, but E can more than afford to get his own damn wrapping paper.

"It's stupid," I blurt as he pulls the rest of the paper away. "I mean, I'm sure you've got more than enough photos but—"

"I love it. Jesus, Vince."

He drags his fingers over the picture. It's an eight by ten framed picture of the two of us. We're up on Rufus' roof, lit by the flash and red and blue fireworks. My head is on his shoulder, his arm is around my shoulder, and his hand in my hair. It's profile shot, but we look happy and content.

"Kelly's kid brother is kind of camera happy."

"He's got a good eye," E says. "And some serious talent. He did this with just a little digital camera?"

"From what I could tell."

"He's got serious potential," E continues, still staring at the picture. "Listen, if you talk to Kelly again, tell her that I know someone who could give him some lessons while he's still in school."

"So you like it?"

"Yeah, Vince. I—yeah. Makes what I got you seem kind of… well, 'shallow' is kind of generous."

"I'll be the judge of that." I hold out my hands and he grabs a bag of his own from under the bed. It's a little smaller than a pillow, with lots of give.

"Look, a friend gave it to me so if you don't like it—"

There's black leather in the bag, cracked and faded. It smells vaguely of cigarettes and beer. I pull it all the way out and the jacket hangs from my hands, definitely bigger than should fit me and showing its age—I'd guess twenty-five years, probably more. But it's familiar. I've seen this jacket before, on album covers and a poster that used to hang over my bed in the corner of the room I had to share with Ricky growing up.

"E."

He's grinning, smug. "Yeah?"

"This isn't his. Tell me this isn't his."

"It was."

"Get the fuck out."

E laughs. "Sorry, I can't."

"How did you get this?"

"Terrence, Sloan's dad, he's a close friend of the family, and he had some memorabilia. I told him how much you worshiped Joey, so…"

I press my face into the leather and breathe deep. The cigarette smell is stronger, and the booze smell, but there's something else, too. It's probably just the last traces of decades old sweat in reality, but to me, it smells like desperation and hope, and the determination of a man who just didn't fit right, so he built himself something new.

"E, this is too much."

His smile turns gentle and warm. "It just cost me shipping so technically, no it's not. No one'll love it like you will. You should have what you want, Vince."

I kiss him, the jacket wedged between us. My hands are in his hair and I suck the air out of his lungs, desperate and needy, because it's so fucking clear now. It's clear like glass and just as sharp. It cuts through the bullshit to the reality.

This isn't going to work. It's cruel and it's dishonest, and I love him enough to not do this to him anymore. He should have so much better.

I sit in his lap and I ride him. Our foreheads are pressed together even as we move. His hands skate up and down my back and I hold him behind his neck to keep me anchored to him.

"Love you. Love you, E, fucking love you."

It's a litany that I can't control or stop, and it has E pushing up to me meet me. He takes my face between his hands and breathes, "I love you so fucking much, Vince," into my mouth as we move.

And then there is no talking. There's just panting and choking air between our brushing lips until we shatter into tiny pieces together.

We curl together afterward, clinging to each other, face to face, limbs tangled tightly. We don't sleep and I know he can feel it, too, that thing in the air.

He has to leave first. He gathers his clothes and the picture and then crosses the room quickly, kissing me hard and deep.

"I love you, Vince."

I smile and stroke his cheek with the back of my hand. "I love you, too. I always have," I say and God, it couldn't have been easy before? It couldn't have just come out like water out of a faucet any day before this one?

"I know." He kisses me again, slow this time. When he pulls back, there's something bright in his eyes. "I know, Vince."

And he does. Better than anyone ever has or ever will.

I don't know how he walks out the door. I don't know how I don't take off after him. But he does, and I don't. I walk out of the hotel feeling so hollowed out that I'm surprised the concierge can't see right through me.

~*~*~

Entry 143

I can't cook and I can't drive, so I get put on clean up duty with Kelly. Johnny's cooking and Turtle's on recon, so she and I get to watch It's A Wonderful Life while they do all the work. It's not a bad bargain. Besides, even if we wanted to, Johnny wouldn't let us help.

"Stay out of my kitchen or I'll cut your fingers off," is the decree, and he's not kidding. He's got a butcher knife eight inches long.  
  
Johnny's Christmas is the best kind of organized chaos. He treats it like a military campaign, and it's good to be a part of something. It's loud, warm, busy, and pretty much exactly what I need.

Plus, the ham is slow roasting in the oven and I can smell it as George Bailey tries to lasso the room. I wrap the jacket tight around me and try not to compare it in my head.

Ramones' memorabilia is not the same as a celestial body. It's not the same thing. It's not.

Kelly flicks my ear.

"Stop it."

"What?"

"It's Christmas. Let it go. Just for today. For Johnny?"

Damn her. Woman's gonna be an awesome wife and a scary as hell mom. I flick her back and she grabs a couch pillow to retaliate, and I stop thinking about E because it's fucking on.

Johnny runs in, butcher knife in hand, shouting at us to stop about thirty seconds from a collision with his perfectly decorated tree. We stop—giggling, panting, and feeling all of ten years old—less than a foot away from the delicate glass ornaments, and we don't really have it in us to even look guilty.

I do keep myself out of sight when Kelly shows the bruise on her cheekbone to Turtle when he gets back with cranberry sauce and like, three different types of nog. It was just an innocent, errant elbow, all in the Christmas spirit. He threatens to kick down the bathroom door and kick my ass, and for about two minutes, he really means it. It's going to get him hella laid tonight.

He's calmed down in time for dinner, though. We give him shit, but Johnny is a ridiculous cook and it's smaller than some Christmases he's organized, but one of the best, just the four of us. Johnny talks about a pilot he's auditioning for and Kelly talks vaguely about wedding plans.

It's family, my family. And they make me feel completely normal for the first time since the shit with E started six months ago.

If that's not a Christmas miracle, I don't know what is.

~*~*~

Entry 144

I'm waiting for Freddy at his hotel, in his hotel room, naked, when he arrives.

"Hello, beautiful boy." Freddy smiles at me. "I must say, this is by far the best thing I have seen in the last few months."

"This isn't a spectator sport, Sherlock."

He drops his bag and his smile grows, slightly crooked from a childhood even broker than mine. He drops his bag and his coat, and is working on the buttons of his shirt as he walks towards me. "Oh, I know, Sunshine. But you can't blame a man for enjoying the view."

"Just so long as you're not planning on standing there all day. You'll give a guy a complex."

Freddy's shirt lands on the floor. He looks good for any age, but for a guy over forty, he's fucking fantastic. "You could do with one."

"Well, get your tea-drinking ass over here and give me one."

He steps out of his shoes and toes off his socks and finally, finally, fucking **finally** joins me on the bed.

"With pleasure, love. With utter fucking pleasure."

~*~*~

Entry 145

I'm close. I'm so fucking close. My arms gave out on me a few minutes ago; the comforter is bunched under my knees. My knuckles are white on the pillow under my chest, and I'm so Goddamn close.

"Fuck me harder. Fuck, Freddy, please, fuck me harder."

He laughs, bent over with his chest pressed to my back. "I fuck you any harder and I'll break you in half."

"Fuck—fucking—break me."

He groans in my ear, but he obliges me—pushing deeper, moving faster, gripping my hips tighter, and slamming me back and forward harder. His teeth dig into the side of my neck and I come so hard that my knees give out on me.

Freddy wraps his arm around my chest and holds me up while he finishes. It's a familiar, objectified feeling that's softened by the gentleness in his hands. He lays me down carefully, face first in the pillow, and strokes my back as he pulls out and lies down beside me.

"Oi, Vince, you all right?"

Well-fucked, warm, and sleepy so, yes, more than. If I could just get a towel between me and the wet spot, life would be perfect.

"Mm-hm."

"Hey, come on now, Sunshine, you know better than to lie to me."

"You get a sex change overseas you didn't tell me about Freddy? 'Cause you sound like a chick."

"It's nothing so serious." He chuckles at that and tugs me onto my back so that we're on the far side of the huge bed, my head on his shoulder. He cards his hand through my hair and waits until we're readjusted.

"Can't we just sleep?"

"We could," Freddy concedes, combing through my hair again, setting a rhythmic pattern. "But you've never been desperate like this before, Vince. Hungry—deliciously hungry—but never desperate."

"I'm not desperate."

"Aren't you?"

I sigh. "Freddy."

He gives my hair a gentle tug. "Come off it. If you can't tell me, who can you tell?"

He has a point. Talking to Freddy is like talking to a shrink. It's not that he's got the answers, but he's blunt, his only bias is that he likes me, and he doesn't know, well, anyone I know.

I heave another sigh. "I got in deep and I got stupid."

"Happens to the best of us."

"Not to me. Not in fifteen fucking years. I'm not this guy."

"What guy?"

"I don't know. That's part of the fucking problem."

Freddy is quiet for a long time, just stroking my hair and thinking. He's a calculated man, Freddy. It's how he managed to pull himself up from a buyer to an executive—he knows what he's doing. And the fact that he has to spend so much time thinking this over makes me twitchy.

"I used to know," I add, hoping to elicit a reaction. And it gets one, just not what I wanted.

"And who did you used to be, Vince?"

"I was a professional. And I was a good guy. I was fucking grounded. There was the job and my boys, and then there was everything else, and I knew exactly where I fit."

"And now you don't? Now you're not a good guy?"

"No." I haven't been able to think of myself as a good guy since I started lying to E months ago. And it's not something I enjoy feeling. "And I don't fit."

"You know, love, sometimes it's not the peg, it's the hole."

"What the fuck's that supposed to mean?"

"You're looking down the barrel of thirty, beautiful boy. You're not a child anymore. Maybe it's not you that doesn't fit, maybe it's this town."

I say nothing. Instead I pick at the hem of the sheet covering us.

"I'd never tell you what to do, Vince, and if the job still makes you happy, then keep right on doing it. You're the best."

I am. I'm the very fucking best. I'm the highest earner the Gold Standard has ever seen. I have all of Hollywood in my little black book. And I've never had anyone leave unhappy.

"But if you're looking for other options, there're opportunities out there for you, Vince."

"Like what? Freddy, my only marketable skill is an ass like a black hole and a mouth like a Hoover. It's not like there's a big demand for that anywhere else."

"Oi, it's a gorgeous arse and a fuckable mouth. Not to mention you've got eyes forever, a body I can't keep my eyes off of, and a face like a bloody sculpture, beautiful boy. You've been selling yourself for years, brilliantly I might add. If you don't want to do the job anymore, you should try using that smile to sell something else."

"I'm not cut out for retail, Freddy."

"I've said it before and I'll say it again, you're not too old to walk the runway. Male models have a much longer shelf life than those anorexic empty spaces."

"Come on. We both know I'm not cut out for that."

"No we don't. For fuck's sake, I've been offering you another option for the last five years. I know. I've known since I saw you in that restaurant ten years ago, I just didn't have enough pull to get you in the door."

"You got me in the door with, Ari."

"To hold you over, a layover on the way to making you the next Tyson Beckford." He pushes himself up so that he can look at me. "I've been holding the door wide fucking open for you for half a decade, Vince. All you have to do is walk through it."

It's far from his first offer. But this is the first time I've felt like I could even think about it.

"How would I do that?"

Freddy's smile cracks his face so wide that it looks ready to split in half. There's a hint of something mercenary, but this just crossed into business and Freddy's a shark in his industry.

"I showed Gloria at Armani a few pictures before I left Paris, and she loved your look. I'll get in touch with her before I leave L.A. and if you decide that you'd like to try and fit your peg in a different hole, I'll book you a ticket on my flight out on the 2nd."

"You're serious."

"I've always been serious about your potential, Vince. Question is: 'Are you?'"

I don't say anything, and he lies back down.

"Think about it. You don't have to decide today. But you should let me know as soon as you can."

I nod against his shoulder and stare up at the ceiling. He keeps stroking my hair and I eventually drop off, thinking about square pegs and round holes, and the idea of looking for a new board entirely.

~*~*~

Entry 146

"Would you be okay if I left?"

"You headin' somewhere, Vince?" Johnny asks. "Because if someone offers to buy you an island, you call a lawyer first, you hear me?"

"I'm looking at maybe changing things. And I may have to leave."

Johnny stops and looks at me across the table. We're at lunch. After twenty-four hours with Freddy, I need air and family to figure out what the fuck is going on with me.

"Whatever you wanna do, baby bro, I got your back."

Something loosens in my chest. "Thanks, Johnny."

"No problem. Hey, pass the hot sauce, will ya? Thanks."

~*~*~

Entry 147

Bob's booked this date for a month in advance. He reserves me on the twenty-ninth and has since he first became a client. It's a tradition.

We celebrate the New Year early. He doesn't want to inconvenience me, he says. But I don't know if I believe that. I've never pressed before, but things are different now. I'm different. So this time, I ask.

"Our anniversary," Bob admits this time.

"Wedding?"

"First fuck," Bob says with a smile, and I grin back.

"Do you want—"

"No, Chase, I'm fine. I just get a bit…morose if I'm alone in this big old house. I just appreciate the company is all."

I scoot closer and rest my head on his shoulders. He's old enough to be my grandfather, but he's been a better man to me than my father ever could've been, so it's no struggle at all to wrap my arms around him and mean it. "Well, you're not alone."

"And neither are you, Chase." He wraps his thin arms around me in return and just like that, there it is that safe feeling. The one that I've always gotten from Bob, and used to get from E.

The one I want to have all the time. Maybe I deserve that, even if I don't deserve E, and I think that's when I make the decision. I'm pretty sure it is, because the next thing out of my mouth is not what I was planning on when I sat down on the couch with Bob.  
  
"It's Vince," I say softly. "Vincent Chase."

"Vince. That's a good name."

"Thanks."

"Thank you for sharing it with me. You wanna tell me why?"

I shrug. "It's been more than half a decade. You deserve to know."

"Bullshit."

"No, Bob, it's not." I sigh and turn to press a kiss to his cheek. "It's really not. I think—I think I'm gonna retire, and I'd kind of like you to know who I am."

"I know who you are. You want me to tell you? Is that something you might be interested in?"

I shake my head. "No, Bob. I don't wanna know."

"Well you're gonna find out one day, like it or not. You mark my words." Then he pulls back and smiles at me. "But I'm proud of you, Vince. You're better than this."

I don't know about that. But I just nod and move back in for another hug. I feel so fucking young, a little kid lost and tired, and Bob holds me tight.

"Just drop me a line every now and then, let me know you're all right."

"I'll be fine."

"I know. But do an old man a favor, anyway."

"You got it Bob," I say into the fabric of his suit.

"Thank you, Vince." It's three words but they sit on me, hard and heavy. I wrap my arms as tightly as I think he can handle around his chest and hang on. Things are moving too fast around me.

"No, Bob, thank you."

~*~*~

Entry 148

"You've still got a key to my apartment, right, Turtle?"

"Yeah. You forget something?"

"No. I just wanted to be sure."

"You sure? Cause I'm in West Hollywood, anyway."

I actually do need a toy for work. But I'm not going to ask Turtle to get that for me.

"No, thanks. I'm good."

"A'ight. I'll call you later. Kelly's goin' out with her girls tonight and the Hack just hooked me up. I'll pick you up."

"I'll see you then."

~*~*~

Entry 149

Ari is not happy. In fact, he's been yelling for the last hour solid.

"Do you want to buy my contact list from me or not?"

"Chase, baby, you've got at least ten more good years in you. You're not done playing yet!"

"I'm a big believer in folding and walking away from the table when you're ahead."

"Don't you quote Kenny Rogers at me, you emo bitch. I built a life for you from the ground up and this is the thanks I get? Baby, you're a gold mine and you've got at least ten years before your traffic even slows."

"I'm trying to do you a favor, Ari. You've been good to me and you know I don't want to take my client list anywhere else. So just make me an offer."

He lowballs me by half. Then his intercom beeps and Mrs. Ari yells at him for 15 minutes through the phone and after she hangs up, he gives me exactly what it's worth.

"Take care of yourself out there in the real world, kid. Me and the missus, we're here if you need us."

"I know."

Ari curses and then rises from behind the desk. "You wanna hug it out?"

I laugh. "Ari—"

"Come on," he says, holding his arms out. "Let's hug it out, bitch."

"I'm not a bitch," I say, accepting the hug anyway.

"Nope. Not anymore, Chase. Good luck. You're going to need it."

~*~*~

Entry 150

I tell the guys on New Year's. It's last minute, pushing it hard, but it's the only time I can do it face to face. And they deserve that.

Johnny takes the news that I'm leaving well. He's been dying for me to quit the business for years, so he doesn't care where I'm going so long as my job doesn't involve sexual favors of any kind. He hugs me tight and tells me to call when I get to a phone, collect if I have to.

Kelly doesn't say much. She just sits on Johnny's ridiculous leather couch and keeps her eyes locked on Turtle, who won't look at me.

"You couldn't tell me sooner?"

"I didn't know if I was going to do it."

"But now ya are. Jesus, Vince, you could've waited a little longer to tell us, but you'd have had to call from the fucking plane."

"I—Turtle, I'm sorry, but I have to do this."

"I know you do. But that don't mean I have to stop being pissed off at you being a douchebag just because I'm glad you decided to stop sucking dick for money."

"It's better as a hobby, anyway."

"Shut the fuck up. Look, man, it's good that you're quitting, but do ya gotta fly halfway 'round the world to do it?"

"No. But, Turtle, there's nothing for me here but you guys." And after everything, it's not enough of a reason anymore. "I gotta go, man. You know that, right?"

Turtle says nothing for the longest time. And if he says he doesn't, maybe I'll just cave. I've been sitting on this balloon of hysteria that's just waiting to pop and send me screaming back to my nice, safe, come-covered life.

"You're coming back for my wedding, right? 'Cause I can't get married without a best man."

"Jesus, Turtle, like I'd be anywhere else."

"All right. Well…fucking…have fun, I guess, man, shit. Bang a French broad for me or something," he finishes lamely, and Kelly actually lets it slide.

"Love you, too, Turtle." I laugh, slapping him on the shoulder. "Hey, my lease is paid for the next year. You and Kelly can stay there, if you want."

I hand him the copy of the key I made for Kelly this morning and my hand only shakes a little bit.

~*~*~

Entry 151

I am sitting on a bench at LAX. I have one carry-on and two suitcases that are already checked. My passport—new, a rush job Ari helped facilitate—and wallet are both deep in the zippered pockets of Joey's—of my jacket. And my leg won't stop bouncing. I haven't flown since that first flight from New York to L.A.

Freddy's hand lands on my knee, stopping the bouncing. "Don't be nervous. You'll be brilliant. Need anything? Drink? Valium?"

I laugh and take him up on the Valium. It's a long flight to Paris.

(end)


End file.
